


Gonna Break My Rusty Cage and Run

by notyouranswer (gorgeouschaos)



Category: Sandman Slim - Richard Kadrey, Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Crossover, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Season/Series 04, for now anyway, playing fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2020-08-13 11:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20173162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeouschaos/pseuds/notyouranswer
Summary: When Castiel pulls the Righteous Man from Hell, in addition to Dean Winchester, he ends up with a pissed-off, scarred-up nephilim Hell knows as Sandman Slim.(An angel named Alice might have something to do with that.)Heaven is less than pleased with the unforeseen complication James Stark presents. Lucifer is amused. Sam is slightly overwhelmed. Stark is sick of being called an Abomination. Dean wants a drink.Bobby just wants to know why he keeps adopting kids with asshole fathers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the maximum of five people who will appreciate this crossover, here's a Sandman Slim meets Supernatural fic. I'm setting the beginning of season four to coincide with the beginning of the Sandman Slim series.
> 
> Not complete and I only vaguely know where I'm going, so no promises on updates. I'll do my best to stick to every two weeks or so.
> 
> Title from the Johnny Cash song Rusty Cage, because that scene in Kill Society seemed like something Dean would relate to.
> 
> Anyways. Enjoy! :)

“I never wanted you to see me like this, Alice,” I choke out, feelings I’d been burying for so long catching in my chest.

“You kept your promise, Jimmy,” Alice says, her hand in mine feeling like forgiveness. “You made it to thirty. Put something on my grave for the people we used to be, okay?” 

I nod. The kid I had been had died the day he was sent to Hell. Jimmy Stark was just as dead as Alice.

“And make sure Dean Winchester stays alive. It’s important.” 

“Okay,” I say. She’s the only person I will take orders from again.

“Goodbye, Jimmy,” Alice says, and I wake up to the sound of distant wings.

\---

I’m too busy getting blinded by the unfamiliar sun to pay attention to the sound of thudding below me. Then I hear a noise that’s not so much a yell as a croak and it hits me: I’m leaning against a cross.

There’s someone buried here.

I don’t have a shovel and I can’t risk using hoodoo without blowing the person up, so I start digging with my bare hands. It’s probably ineffective but I can’t just do nothing. Alice wouldn’t have wanted me to do nothing.

After a few tense minutes, one desperately scrabbling hand bursts out of the ground. I grab it, feeling the fingers clench in shock, and then I yank the poor bastard bodily out of his grave.

Dean Winchester squints up at me.

“What the fuck?” he asks, or tries to. Hellion is rough on your throat even when you haven’t just been resurrected.

I’m not willing to embarrass myself by trying to talk and besides, I don’t know what to say. Angels pulled us out of Hell somehow isn’t a straightforward, easily understood answer to the question I think he’s trying to ask.

So I shrug. Winchester doesn’t look placated, but he shrugs back, so I assume we’re good.

I stagger to my feet once I don’t have to squint so much and offer Winchester a hand up. After a moment’s pause, he takes it and hauls himself upright.

That’s when both of us see the destruction surrounding us. The trees in this clearing look like some kind of hurricane has hit them, blown outwards in a near-perfect circle.

I whistle silently. Looks like angels have some pretty serious mojo. 

But then, to bring back two dead men, they’d have to.

I shrug again, more to myself than to Winchester, and start carefully towards the highway I can see through where the trees used to be. My legs are unsteady and distant. I feel exactly like how I probably should-- like I just came back from the dead.

Winchester follows me, even less sure on his feet but with his face set in determination.

I let him. Alice told me to protect him. I couldn’t protect her, but maybe I can keep the Righteous Man alive instead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m more or less borrowing some lines verbatim from Sandman Slim, so if you see anything you recognize from there, that’s why.  
I own nothing of either Sandman Slim or Supernatural, regardless.

The two of us walk down the road for a while in silence. I’ve got my knife, my Veritas, and the Key. I’m wearing the same clothes I was when I got Downtown, even though they don’t really fit anymore, and everything hurts. My head pounds in time with my steps and I have to squint to see into the sun. It would be much easier to just use the Room but I don’t want to give away my advantage yet. Besides, I don’t know where I’d go.

Yesterday, I was in the caves, searching for the water that sometimes drips through the rock ceiling. Today, I’m somewhere on Earth, Alice is dead and an angel, and I have to keep Dean Winchester alive.

I almost miss the simplicity of the arena. 

I know about Winchester. Everyone in Hell who had any pull at all did. They used to torture him on the streets like they’d did to me, made a show out of it.

The thing was, though, just like with me, after a while, it got boring. 

Because Winchester would. Not. Break.

I fucking hate Alastair-- spend some time on his rack and you would, too. So even though I wasn’t allowed to do anything, every time I heard Winchester’s screams, I would wish him luck.

He lasted thirty years. Longest I’ve ever heard of, besides his dad, and John Winchester was all the right kinds of fucked up to hold out in Hell.

I had expected they’d send Winchester into the arena after he broke. He’d been quite a fighter topside, from what I’d heard. I felt it when the first seal cracked and I’d started keeping an eye out for him. Anyone that could get under Alastair’s skin was a potential... not friend, maybe, friends got you killed, but a potential ally. Alastair had kept the kid, though, turned him into his first apprentice in a long time.

Alastair took Winchester to some of my fights. Every time they showed up it got harder to remember Alice’s safety was depending on me.

And now she’s dead, anyway.

I force myself out of my head. Introspection is a waste of time and Winchester’s pointing at something.

It’s a gas station. Halle-fuckin-lujah. Maybe there’ll be some water in there. My throat feels like sandpaper.

The door is locked. I shove my knife into the lock and twist. The door squeaks open.

Winchester and I head to the refrigerator. There’s water. We spend a minute or so just gulping down bottles of water. 

For all that I’m in a deserted gas station leaning on a fridge with the Righteous Man, the moment the water gets to my mouth is my first perfect moment in a long, long time.

“So, what the fuck?” Winchester asks conversationally after we get our breath back. He’s back to English, I notice. Maybe he’s decided this is real. I have to grapple for the right words now that we’re not using Hellion.

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “An angel lifted you out of Hell and I guess I came along for the ride.”

Winchester looks at me hard. “You wanna say that again?”

I can’t really say I blame him for his disbelief. If Alice hadn’t talked to me, I would probably still be firmly in the camp of “angels aren’t real” right along with him.

“I know it sounds impossible,” I begin, tired of this conversation already, and then a high-pitched ringing starts up.

“Yeah, and?” Winchester demands.

“Can you hear that?” I ask, trying to pinpoint where the noise is coming from. His expression shifts from disbelieving to scathing. I have just enough time to wonder if I’m imagining things when he covers his ears.

The noise starts to get louder. Winchester goes for the salt.

Something shifts and suddenly I can hear a voice that makes me stagger .

** _DEAN WINCHESTER, I AM THE ONE WHO GAVE YOU SALVATION. CAN YOU _ ** ** _HEAR ME? _ **

Whatever language this thing is speaking in, it isn’t English, but somehow I can understand it.

I risk a glance over to Winchester. He’s on his knees and there’s blood trickling out of his  ears.

“I don’t think he can, sorry,” I yell.

There’s a sudden silence. I take a breath in relief. The voice comes back just as Winchester is straightening up.

** _I WILL NEED MY VESSEL THEN. WATCH OVER HIM IN MY STEAD, ABOMINATION._ **

Then it’s gone.

Winchester stands up warily, swiping blood from his nose. 

“What the hell was that?” He demands.

“I don’t know.” I’ve been saying that too much for my own comfort. I don’t like not knowing what’s going on. It’s a good way to get killed.

“Bobby will know,” Winchester says. His next words are hesitant. “He’s probably dead by now, though, huh?”

I stare at him. 

“What year is it?” Winchester asks. “How long was I down there?” He’s getting frantic. Reasonable, but not good.

I realize I don’t know either and look around. There’s a rack of newspapers by the door. I grab one.

“It’s September 2008, apparently.” 

I’ve been in Hell for just under eleven years, Earth time.

Winchester is leaning on the doorframe, his face pale. “But it was… It was decades.”

I just nod. 

“Where are we going?” I ask him after giving him a minute to absorb the date. It’s best not to dwell on how long you spent getting ripped apart Downtown. I know from experience.

“We?” Winchester repeats. “You planning on following me around?”

“The angels told me to,” I say, straight-faced.

He glares at me before shoving the door open. “I’m going to call Sam. You can grab some water and snacks for the drive.”

When I get outside again with a plastic bag stuffed with chocolate, jerky, and water, Winchester's hotwiring a car.

“We’re going to South Dakota,” he tells me, and I slide into the passenger seat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, sorry. Next chapter should be a little quicker.  
Also, I'm sort of just smashing the two mythologies/worlds together, so please forgive any discrepancies.

We get five minutes down the road before Winchester turns on the radio. What comes out of the radio is a blast of static that does  _ not _ help my headache and then some Robert Johnson comes on. 

That’s acceptable, if a little ironic. We drive in silence.

Winchester gives in two hours later. 

“Angels? Really?”

“Yup.”

We go back to silence. I would kill someone for a cigarette right now. Instead I rip into a piece of beef jerky. I don’t like the look of it-- a little too much like skin that’s been slow-roasted-- but I’m hungry and if I don’t look too hard I can keep it down.

“Why me?” Winchester asks as we pass Highway 35. 

I don’t feel like dealing with his reaction to realizing he broke the first seal, so all I say is, “Alice just said you were important.”

It’s the truth, after all.

And fuck if it doesn’t hurt to think about her even in passing.

She’s dead. After all these years, after everything I did to try to keep her safe, I failed. I just hope she died clean and that she’s happy with the halo nutjobs Upstairs. I sure as hell wouldn’t be, but she was always the better person.

“Who’s Alice?” Winchester asks, oblivious to my thoughts. 

Hearing her name feels like a sucker punch to the gut. I have to inhale before I can respond. “She’s an angel now. She used to be my girl.” 

I can’t hope to explain what she was to me. So I don’t bother to try.

“How does that work?”

“No clue.” From what I’d gathered Downtown, angels were born, not made. Either Azazel’s intel was wrong or something major was happening. 

Alice had been human. I’m not sure of much anymore, but I’m sure of that. 

“What’s in South Dakota?” I need to change the subject before I start thinking too hard.

“Bobby,” Winchester says, like that means anything to me. When I stare at him blankly he elaborates. 

“He knows more lore than anyone I’ve ever met. Damn good hunter. He’ll know how to find Sam, too.”

“Your brother?”

Winchester doesn’t visibly move but I can read the sudden tension in his body. “How do you know that?”

“You spend three decades screaming a guy’s name, word gets around.”

Winchester’s fingers go white around the steering wheel.

I didn’t mean to, but I’d said it in Hellion.

We don’t talk until we hit Sioux Falls. 

“Let me go in first, okay? He’ll probably try to kill me but I’ll talk to him. Then I’ll introduce you. I’m still not sure what you’re doing here anyway.”

“That makes two of us.”

He parks the car in front of the house and knocks on the door. I watch from the passenger seat as he knocks and as Bobby Singer tries to kill him. 

Ah, father-son relationships.

\---

Dean beckons me inside after a few minutes.

“Who the hell are you?” Singer demands. He doesn’t go for a weapon but I can see by the way his fingers twitch that he wants to.

He’s welcome to try. He’ll lose, but I need to stick with Winchester.

“Stark,” I tell him, not bothering to offer my hand since I know he wouldn’t take it.

“What, no first name?” Something in his voice reminds me of the good times with my father, when he was just a few beers in and it was a weekend.

“James,” I say, against my better judgement, spitting the name out like it burns. It almost does. It’s been eleven years (or more than a thousand) since I’ve said it. “Just James.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again: mashing canon into a blender and hitting puree until it’s usable. Sorry for any resulting weirdness.  
If you’re enjoying this fic, please consider dropping a comment-- especially in a small/nonexistent fandom, hearing from readers is what gives me the motivation to keep writing :)

Bobby Singer offers me and Winchester a drink, which raises my opinion of him significantly. His whiskey is cheap but it goes down infinitely smoother than Aqua Regia. If both Winchester and I go through it a little faster than is technically socially acceptable Singer doesn’t say anything.

“So, Dean,” Bobby says at last. “You got any idea what got you out? Was it Sam?”

Winchester shakes his head and shoots me a pointed look. “Stark?”

“Angels,” I tell Singer. I refill my glass in the ensuing silence.

“Angels,” Singer repeats flatly.

“Yup.” I swallow half of my glass. My skin is buzzing with the urge to run or fight or do anything but sit still, but the Jack seems to tamp the urge down a little bit.

“Dean says he doesn’t remember Hell or how he got out, so how come you do?” Singer asks.

I look at Winchester in surprise. He’s staring into his whiskey. I can practically hear him telling me to let it slide. 

I do, but I make a note to ask him about it later.

You don’t just get to forget Hell. Even if you’re God’s chosen weapon.

“I don’t know,” I say. A little tension goes out of Winchester’s shoulders. “I knew one of the angels, so that might be why.”

“You know an angel?”

“Yeah, I don’t know how that happened either,” I mutter. “She was human. All I know is I’m supposed to protect Winchester because he’s important.”

Singer refills his glass and takes a large gulp. “This is above my paygrade.”

_ Mine too, Singer. _

“You know anything about angels, Bobby?” Dean asks. “I’m not saying I believe any of this, of course, but if Stark’s right--”

“If?” I interrupt, annoyed.

“If he’s right,” Dean continues, ignoring me, “We need to be prepared to deal with them.”

“Well, there’s more lore about angels than just about anything else. Nobody sane in recent history has seen one that I know of, though.”

“They’re not supposed to be active on Earth,” I tell Singer. “That was the deal. If they’re showing up now, there’s something big going down.” 

At some point, I’ll have to say something about the Seals. I’m going to put that off for as long as possible. If the angels do what I think they’re supposed to do, it won’t matter anyway. 

“How exactly do you know all of this?” Singer asks. “You’re human, right?”

I can hear his thoughts, more or less, which is something I’m a little confused by. I couldn’t do that before I got sent Downtown. 

He doesn’t trust me. He’s only letting me stay in his house because Winchester vouched for me. 

I wonder what Winchester said.  _ He’s a nutjob psycho but he’s supposed to keep me alive _ , maybe. I’m impressed he hasn’t tried to ditch me yet.

“I belonged to a high-ranking Hellion,” I say. “After a while he started letting things slip.”

Singer looks angry. I don’t understand why until he says, “People aren’t things you can own.”

Winchester and I studiously avoid making eye contact. 

“Maybe up here,” I say. “Down there it’s all we are.”

“So you remember Hell?” Singer asks.

I tap my temple. My finger lands on an old knife scar. “Every godforsaken year of it.”

Winchester twitches. 

“How long were you down there, son?” Singer asks me softly. His thoughts are less distrustful and more horrified. He’s starting to put together the implications of all my scars and wonder what that means for Dean.

I pour another few inches of Jack into my glass. The bottle’s starting to get low between the three of us. “It’s been eleven years up here.”

“And down there?”

Singer’s quick on the draw, I’ll give him that much. 

“Longer.”

Singer opens his mouth. Winchester cuts him off, thankfully.

“Bobby, where’s Sam? You said you hadn’t heard from him in a while.”

Singer lets the issue of time slide.

“‘Cause I haven’t. He stopped answering my calls a few months ago. No idea where he is. Last time I heard from him he told me he was going to get you out no matter what it took.”

“Damn it, Sammy,” Winchester mutters. “Any idea where he went?”

“Nope. I figured you’d be able to find him.”

Winchester rubs his jaw. “Probably. But if he had anything to do with this, we need to find him fast.”

I doubt Sam Winchester has the juice to sic angels on Hell, but I’ve seen weirder things. I speak up.

“I can probably find him.”

Winchester snorts. “That’d be impressive. You gonna hack a satellite or something?”

“I was going to use hoodoo, but if you’d like I can do my best to antagonize the CIA.” I’ll have to look into satellites. They’ve probably gotten more advanced since I’ve been gone. God knows the march of progress waits for no one, especially not LA trailer trash.

Singer and Winchester are suddenly on edge.

“Hoodoo?” Winchester repeats. “You a witch or something?”

“Magician,” I say. “I don’t fuck with hex bags and blood or any of that shit. I just use magic.” I use blood a decent amount of the time but I’m going to just omit that fact.

“Magic is a witch thing,” Winchester says.

I stare at him. “You spent how long in Hell again? You can’t tell me Alastair never taught you otherwise.”

Winchester full-body flinches. Singer notices. I didn’t mean to do that. I guess Winchester’s still afraid of the white-eyed demon, even after all this time.

Alastair isn’t that powerful, all things considered. But he’s a sadistic and talented son of a bitch. He’d have to be, to break Winchester.

“Dean?” Bobby asks, halfway out of his seat.

“So you can use magic but you’re not a witch?” Dean clarifies. 

He’s staring at the table. Singer sits down again slowly.

“Yeah. Witches are knock-off Sub Rosa, usually. The point is, I can find your brother unless he’s got some cloaking hoodoo, which he shouldn’t have.”

“Well, as long as you don’t do anything unsanitary,” he tells me.

“A location spell only takes a few drops of blood.”

Singer throws back the last of his whiskey. “I feel like that qualifies. Don’t get any on the carpet.”

“I don’t care how you do it, just find Sam,” Winchester orders me. His eyes are cold but I can see the desperation behind them just fine.

“Get me a map and some kind of pendulum,” I tell him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics mean the speaker is using Hellion. After so long in Hell I have to think that Dean and especially Stark would have trouble switching back to English.  
I hope those of you who are reading this are liking it so far. If you are, comments and kudos make my day and provide motivation to keep writing :)

Sam Winchester turns out to be in a small town in Iowa. It takes me two minutes to determine that. I’m rusty.

“People live in Iowa?” I confirm, handing the pendulum to Singer. 

Winchester stares at me. “Yes, Stark, people live in Iowa.”

“Weird. Why?”

“Iowa isn’t _t__hat _ bad.”

“It’s cornfields and humidity,” I tell him. “It’s terrible.”

Winchester shakes his head. “Get in the car. We’re going to Iowa.”

“I didn’t sign up for being sacrificed by the Children of the Corn,” I mutter, but I follow him out the door anyway. Singer slides into the driver’s seat of a beat-up junker of a car.

“What _ did _ you sign up for?” Winchester asks, stopping on the porch to look at me. “Why are you still here?”

“I told you, I’m supposed to protect you. Did Hell fry your memory? You know who the President is? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Winchester gives me a death glare. I think it’s supposed to be intimidating, but considering the time I spent Downtown, it barely registers.

“Yeah, you said. But you just said the angels told you to which somehow strikes me as utter bullshit.”

“Fuck off. You’re getting a free bodyguard. It doesn’t matter why.”

I deliberately turn my back on him. 

Winchester slams me into a porch pillar. I hear Singer shout and get out of the car but I’m a little too busy fighting down the instinct to break Winchester’s neck to pay attention.

“_Let me go,_” I tell Winchester in Hellion. “_Right now. _”

“_You’re gonna answer my questions first,_” he says in the same language. Singer’s footsteps stutter briefly as he hears Winchester.

I’m not a fancy fighter, so I just wrench myself out of his grip and knee him in the balls before taking a large step back.

Winchester doubles over. I almost feel guilty… wait, no, I’m just hungry. Haven’t had a cheeseburger in eleven years.

Singer’s on the bottom porch step pointing a handgun at me. 

Man, I thought I was paranoid. This dude has too many guns.

“Alice told me to protect you,” I tell Winchester, saying it in English so Singer can understand it. “And I’m going to do that, whether you like it or not. It’s my job now.”

Winchester straightens a little and snarls, “Oh, so sorry for not believing that _ Sandman Slim _ is doing something for a reason that’s not his own self interest.”

The title hangs in the air. I snort and brush past Singer to get into the car. 

“You’re gonna have to try harder to get under my skin, Winchester. That one’s been thrown at me for too long to have any effect. And you’re stuck with me until Alice tells me not to protect you, cause she’s holding my leash now.”

The silence in Singer’s shitty car is tense. I don’t care. 

Iowa is exactly like I thought it would be. It’s humid and full of corn.

Winchester knows which hotel to go to and sweet-talks the bored kid at the front desk into telling us which room his brother’s in.

A demon opens the door. Her eyes widen and go black when she sees me.

I pull her into the hallway and slam her into the wall. 

Dean starts to yell something but I’m not listening. 

The black knife is in my hand and I’m pressing it against the demon’s neck when someone tackles me away from her. The knife goes flying across the hallway.

My body goes into survival mode. I smash my elbow into the nose of the man on top of me and flip him hard enough that his head smacks into the hotel wall. I roll to my feet and throw my hand out to throw some arena hoodoo.

“Stark, stop,” Winchester barks at me. He’s got his gun in his hand but it’s not pointed at me— it’s aimed at the demon. Singer has a gun on me, though.

I have had too many goddamn guns aimed at me today. 

“_Why should I? _” I ask. The Hellion is automatic.

“That’s my brother,” Winchester says. “And he may be a moron for messing with a demon, but I’m not going to let you hurt him.”

I look at Sam Winchester. He’s glaring at all of us, even on the floor with his nose gushing blood.

“You’re shorter than I expected,” I tell him, and I grab my knife from the floor before stalking back to the demon. I press it to her throat and this time Sam doesn’t tackle me.

“_Sandman Slim,_” she purrs. She’s got a smug look on her face I don’t like. “_Whatever will Azazel say when I tell him that you’re not where you’re supposed to be _?”

“She's talking about Azazel?” Singer asks Dean. Dean nods shortly.

“Y_ou can ask him when you get to Tartarus, _ ” I say. “_Or you can ask his dead body, I suppose. It might not have rotted yet. There was a lot of blood._”

The demon tries unsuccessfully to hide her surprise. She’s been topside too long. Must be just a flunky for one of the power players. 

I knew the twisted soul I can see under her meat suit was familiar.

“Ruby.”

She smiles at me. “In the flesh, Jimmy.”

“Lucifer says you’re batshit,” I tell her, and I stab the black knife through her throat. The body she’s wearing lights up and then crumples to the floor.

Sam starts towards me with murder in his eyes. Dean steps in the way.

“Lilith was real proud of Ruby,” I tell Sam, wiping the knife on the poor dead girl’s jeans. “Said she would have you hooked on blood soon.”

“What?” Sam looks absolutely shellshocked.

“You dumb motherfucker. You really thought you could trust her? I thought you were supposed to be the brains of the family.”

“We need to get out of here,” Singer says when Sam stays silent. “Even in a dump like this someone will call the cops.”

He's not wrong, so we leave quickly.

I follow the Winchesters to a ‘67 Impala.

“Nice car,” I tell Dean.

I get a flicker of a smile.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend, peering over my shoulder: Does that say ‘gonna break my rusty cabbage and run?’  
Me: uh, no? Cage. Not cabbage. The narrator had to say a prayer at some point and the closest thing he had to one was the lyrics to a Johnny Cash song.  
Random person across the table: Big mood. 
> 
> Warnings update: in general anything from either fandom, but in particular there’s some vague implied/referenced canonical rape from SS in this chapter.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, hope you like it, and I live for kudos/comments :)

Dean turns up the music loud enough I can’t hear what he and Sam are saying so I settle into the backseat and do my best not to think.

A weird rectangle device nearly hits me in the head. It’s reflex to throw some arena hoodoo and burn it.

“I spent fifty bucks on that iPod,” Sam protests.

“It was douchey anyway,” Dean mutters.

_ iPod.  _ I file that away to look into. 

“You’re cleaning the ash out of the backseat,” Dean tells me, and I flip him off.

The Winchesters, Singer and I wind up in a crappy diner half an hour away. 

When I smile at the waitress her mind flickers with uncertainty before she smiles back professionally. 

I look away. I haven’t seen myself in a mirror yet, but I was stupid to think I still have the charm I did before Hell. Girls don’t usually go for the kind of guy that looks like he got attacked by a sentient wood chipper.

“Coffee and that sandwich,” I tell her.

Dean orders a hamburger. Sam and Singer get coffee.

When the waitress is out of sight everybody turns to stare at me.

“What?”

Dean is the first to speak. “You knew Lilith?”

“Obviously.”

“How?” Sam asks. 

He hates me. I don’t even need to use any of my newfound telepathy to figure that out. 

“Spent a lot of time around Azazel. It worked out that way.”

“Azazel’s dead,” Singer says.

“Now he is, yeah. I killed him.”

The waitress delivers our coffee.

“It’ll be just a minute on that hamburger, hon,” she tells Dean, winking.

He smiles back and she doesn’t flinch away from it.

I don’t know how I feel about that. I should find a mirror.

“I killed Azazel,” Dean says once she’s left.

I sigh and take a slug of coffee. It’s shitty coffee, but hey, it’s the first coffee I’ve had in a long time, which makes it excellent coffee.

“You killed a powerful demon working for him. Azazel needs permission to possess someone. You didn’t do jack shit about Azazel himself.”

I don’t feel like explaining myself to these people. I don’t feel like remembering Azazel either.

I shove back from the booth and head to the bathroom. 

“Where are you going?” Sam demands.

“I need to take a piss. You’re welcome to watch if you get off on that shit.”

He makes a face and stares into his coffee like I offended his delicate sensibilities. 

Given that he was voluntarily fucking a demon, I don’t think he has much moral standing here.

The bathroom’s got fluorescent lighting that’s about as shitty as the rest of this place. 

Maybe my face isn’t as bad as it looks and it’s this lighting that’s making it look like this. 

Yeah. Right.

I don’t even recognize myself. My face is sharper than it used to be and my eyes have the kind of far away, distant look in them I associate with vets and street kids. I haven’t seen the sun in eleven years and it shows.

Then there’s the scars. Some of them are older and faded silver, remnants from early fights and torture sessions. The other ones are newer, different shades of pink and white in ridges stretching across my face.

No wonder the waitress was wary of me. Before I went Downtown I probably would have avoided myself.

When I slide into the booth again, Sam immediately jumps in on the questioning again.

“So who are you, anyway?”

Christ on a fuckin’ cracker. I feel like a broken record here.

“Stark.” 

He doesn’t get any more information until I’ve had either more alcohol or four hours of sleep.

“I’ll explain later,” Dean mutters to his brother. 

There’s a silence which probably should be tense, but I’m too busy enjoying my caffeine. 

“So what next?” Singer asks. “Dean’s alive but we have no idea why--”

“It was angels,” I mutter under my breath with no hope of being believed.

“--And we’ve got a dead girl’s body and a dead demon.”

“You murdered her,” Sam tells me. 

“Yup.” If he expects the accusation to phase me he’s got a lot to learn.

Sam makes a fist under the table. Vaguely I catalogue all the ways I could kill him without standing up.

“She was making you into an addict so you’d kill Lilith and release Lucifer.”

There’s another silence. I almost miss Hell. At least in the arena it was never quiet enough to hear yourself think.

“You’re delusional,” Sam says.

If I hadn’t promised Alice I’d protect Dean, I would be in LA getting drunk right now. I’ve never had much patience, even before Hell, and I’m more suited to fighting than talking, especially when it’s with these chuckleheads.

“I worked for Azazel, asshole. I heard enough. You seriously trusted a demon who was providing you with an addictive substance?”

Sam doesn’t answer.

He still doesn’t believe me, but he’s doubting himself enough that he probably won’t try to kill me in my sleep. I’ll settle for that. I’m not here to make friends.

“Well, on that note,” Singer says, “What are we doing next?”

“I want to know if it was angels,” Dean says around a bite of hamburger.

The sight of the chewed-up meat makes me feel like throwing up. God knows I lived off meat of dubious origins for long enough to never want to eat it again.

“I know someone who might be able to tell us,” Singer says slowly. 

Great. More driving.

I’m tempted to tip my hand about the Key but I don’t want to give up the advantage. I’ll put up with driving across the Midwest listening to bad hair metal if it means I can keep that ace up my sleeve.

Look at me, Alice. Thinking in advance. You always said I’d get there some day.

The hair metal is exactly as tortuous as I thought it would be. I fall asleep somewhere in Indiana and wake up fighting something that’s not there when Sam opens his door at a gas station.

The Winchesters share a glance and don’t comment.

The mood I’m in, that’s a good choice. 

When we park in front of a house my skin starts crawling. It feels like there’s a... psychic in there, a strong one. Maybe a telepath. They both have a certain aura of superiority and invasiveness about them.

An attractive woman opens the door. 

She’s the kind of girl I would have chatted up in a bar, before. Before Alice, before Hell, before my whole stupid goddamn life went down the drain.

_ Pamela _ pops into my brain. I don’t get a last name. She doesn’t pay attention to me until the other three are through the door.

When Pamela’s eyes fall on me, though, her smile falters.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn her quietly. “I will fuck you up if you try to fuck with my head.”

Hell had tried to get into my brain too many times for me to let it happen. Not much was mine down there, or even up here-- I don’t even have a toothbrush right now-- but my mind is mine.

“Do you think that poorly of psychics, James?” she asks, looking honestly insulted.

“It’s not you,” I tell her. “It’s the rest of your, uh, group.”

“Mmm.” She steps aside and beckons me into her home. “I like to think I’m a little too polite to go around violating people’s minds.”

I grunt in acknowledgement.

I don’t trust her, because I don’t trust anyone, but she’s telling the truth.

Even if she called me James.

My already low respect for the psychic goes down when she tells us we have to do a séance type thing.

“I ain’t fucking with death hoodoo,” I tell Pamela. “I’ve heard the stories.”

She shoots me an amused look. “I’m not into that kind of thing, sugar.”

Dean is watching her ass with zero subtlety. 

Hey, good for him. I don’t even want to think about sex for a while.

When we all sit around a wobbly table I take the chair on Pamela’s right.

“I need to touch where he touched you,” Pamela says, and Dean jolts as her hand disappears beneath the table.

I’m on my feet with my knife to her throat.

“Get your hands off of him,” I growl. Through some miracle it comes out in English.

Pamela raises her hands slowly. “Okay, James. I’m sorry.”

I look to Dean like a good little guard dog. Or a rabid little guard dog, I guess.

“It’s fine,” he says, a little shakily. “It’s okay, Stark.”

I search his pupils. He’s telling the truth.

Guess Alastair wasn’t that kind of fucked-up, then.

I stash the knife in its ankle sheath and sit down before I do something stupid like bolt for the door to get away from what I’ve probably just given away.

Pamela clears her throat and places her hand on Dean’s exposed burn scar, watching me the whole time.

I shrug. “If it’s okay with him, it’s okay with me.”

She starts chanting. Almost at once I hear the same high-pitched whine from the gas station start up. It shifts into words faster this time.

** _I AM CASTIEL. HUMAN EYES ARE NOT MEANT TO LOOK UPON MY TRUE FORM, PAMELA BARNES._ **

Nobody else seems to hear it.

Fuck it.

“Hey, Castiel,” I say. Everyone stares at me, a situation I’m getting used to being in. “They wanna meet you. Don’t believe in angels and, uh, they’re the kind of stupid that’s gonna keep trying.”

Pamela’s stopped chanting.

** _I TOLD YOU I WOULD SEEK OUT MY VESSEL._ **

“Kinda forgot to mention that.”

If an angel can sigh, I think this one just did.

** _TELL THEM. I WISH NO HARM TO ANY OF GOD’S CREATIONS AND IT IS UNWISE TO TRY TO SUMMON ME. I SHALL APPEAR TO YOU TONIGHT._ **

I roll my eyes and pull my hand out of Pamela’s slack grip. The angel’s presence disappears.

I think I just hung up on an angel. One thing I can cross off the bucket list.

No one had their eyes burned out, so I’d say it was a success.

“What was that?” Pamela asks. I feel her mind brush against my thoughts.

The only reason she doesn’t get an exclusive first-hand tour of Downtown is that she stops herself.

“Sorry,” she murmurs.

I let it go this time. If she tries to pull that shit again she’s getting yanked into the memories I don’t even let myself think about.

“He said his name’s Castiel. Gonna show up tonight,” I tell the group I’m stuck with.

“What language was that?” Singer asks. His thoughts are a mix of confusion, fear, and curiosity.

“Uh,” I say. “English?” 

I hope I wasn’t just speaking Hellion to an angel. I like not being smote.

“That wasn’t English,” Sam says. “And it wasn’t whatever you were speaking to-- to Ruby.” He’s more curious than angry.

He’s also not lying.

Goddamnit.

All this unexplainable shit is making me nostalgic for Hell.

“We can ask the dude himself when he shows up tonight, instead of giving the guy who just got dragged out of Hell the third degree.” 

If I don’t get some sleep and booze soon I’m going to camp out in the Room for the rest of eternity. It’s nice and quiet in there. No idiots.

“Fine,” Dean says. “We’ll go back to Bobby’s and sleep. And wait.”

“We will, will we?” Singer demands, but his mouth is quirked into a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t smoke but it’s kind of an important habit of Stark’s. If something’s terribly off please let me know.  
Crossover note: I’m going with the Supernatural version of Hell. Considering how long that would have kept Stark in Hell, I’m going to say that a.) Alice wiped a lot more of his memory than he realizes and b.) time moves faster on the racks than elsewhere in Hell. So he was in Hell for a century or two. Ish.  
Schedule note: I’ll try to update every Thursday, now that I kind of have a plan. I might miss a week every once in a while though, because life.  
Also, shout out to RedWritingHood for commenting and making my day :) I honestly didn’t expect anyone else to enjoy this besides me.

I shake myself out of a bloody, dusty dream after a few hours of restless sleep and head blindly to Singer’s front porch. 

I sit down on the porch steps and try to count my breaths. 

Alice told me to do that once, I think, after I got a little fucked up after my dad’s funeral.

Every time I count, I end up counting to eleven.

Eleven breaths. Eleven blinks. Eleven years burning.

Dean comes out not too long after. He was driving for most of last night but I guess the dreams found him too.

“You smoke, right?” he asks, holding out a pack of Camels.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

I take one and light it with a flick of my finger. The first drag helps calm the shaking in my fingers. It’s got nowhere near the strength of a Malediction, but the hit of nicotine is comforting.

Dean lights up with a silver lighter. 

“You smoke?” I ask, more to distract myself than anything.

“Yeah. Well, I did down there.” Dean takes a long drag and coughs before exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “God, Alastair hated it. But it was something to get me through the day.”

I nod. Anything that pisses Alastair off is fine in my book. Even if the way he said Alastair was a little too fond. 

Stockholm Syndrome happens to the best of us, I suppose.

“I’ll have to stop,” Dean adds as an afterthought. “Lung cancer and all that shit. And Sam would kill me. But hey, one last time, right?”

I finish my first cigarette. “I started when I was… must have been fifteen? I don’t really remember, anymore,” I tell him.

Truth for truth. That’s friendship, Downtown.

I can’t really remember much from before Hell. Everything is faded and blurry after all this time. Just vague images of Alice. A few snapshots of my parents and Vidocq. 

Mason’s dead body. That one’s newer, and fresher. I like that one.

I do wish I could remember Alice’s laugh though. I’d trade Mason for that in a heartbeat. 

We smoke in silence.

“Why are you saying you don’t remember Hell?” I ask him. It’s not the most pressing question I have, but it’s something I’ve been wondering, and it’s probably the only one he can answer.

Dean throws me a glance and grinds out his cigarette beneath his boot heel.

“They’d ask questions. They’d want to know what it’s like. And they’d worry.”

"Tell them to fuck off,” I suggest.

He snorts. “You don’t have any siblings, do you? They never stop nagging at you. And Bobby’s got a concerned look that’ll make you feel terrible.”

I shrug. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Dean contemplates Singer’s scrapyard. I wait for his question.

“Why didn’t you leave?” he asks. “I know you could have gotten out.”

I want to tell him that I didn’t have a way to. That Sandman Slim’s reputation as being able to get anywhere is just a myth.

One Hell survivor to another, though, I tell him the truth. 

“Azazel would have killed Alice. He killed the people who sent me down and said he’d protect her as long as I did what he wanted. It was the only way he had to control me after a certain point.”

“She died, though.”

“No shit.” 

And someone’s going to pay for that, but not just yet. I’ve got to do what Alice told me to do.

After that I can find her killer and make a fish tank from their corpse. I’m looking forward to it.

The four of us have no idea what to expect, so we just sit around Singer’s kitchen table with beers. 

Sam’s a little twitchy. I nudge him with my foot.

“I imagine the shakes should be kicking in about now. Addiction’s a bitch.”

He glares at me and opens his mouth.

Before Sam can respond, the door blows off its hinges and _something_ steps through. It’s crammed into a meatsuit but still glowing too brightly to look at. It’s radiating power and it looks a bit like a mutant octopus with three heads and wings. 

Huh. That’s new.

Singer goes for his shotgun, Dean a knife. I pull out the black knife and wait. 

The arena calm settles over me. It’s the first time I’ve felt settled since I saw Alice walking towards me, glowing and killing guards.

The shotgun has no effect on the thing. Dean sinks his knife into its chest and it just pulls it out and lets it drop.

“Do not waste your effort, Sam Winchester,” it tells Sam as he aims a handgun. 

Sam sneers and fires anyway. 

Hmm, he might have a few redeeming qualities after all.

The thing-- must be Castiel, I guess-- shows no signs of pain. It-- he? He seems a little more polite-- touches his fingers to Sam and Singer’s foreheads. 

They drop.

Their breathing indicates they’re just unconscious. Dean looks at me and I shake my head when he holds up another knife.

These people have too many damn weapons, and that’s me saying that.

The angel reaches for me and I bring up the black knife. “Gonna stop you right there.”

Castiel stops short. “Abomination,” he says.

“Ouch. I mean, that might be true, but that doesn’t mean you should say it. How would you feel if I called you a mutant bird-octopus? Did you not get that elementary school bullying lecture?”

I’m pretty sure I ditched that one, now that I think about it, but hey. It’s the thought that counts.

Castiel looks confused. Or rather his... glow seems confused.

Fucking hell. I already hate dealing with angels. Just use facial expressions like the rest of us. If I can’t read your face and I can’t read your thoughts and you’re fucking glowing, then you’re just being rude.

“I am not insulting you, James Stark. Merely stating the truth.”

“I’d say calling me an abomination counts as an insult, octopus boy.”

Two angel sighs in a day has to be some sort of personal record. Even Lucifer only sighed at me about once a decade.

“You are a nephilim,” the angel tells me. “You are by definition an abomination. You are not meant to exist.”

“Whatever,” I tell him. "Tell Dean what you came here to.”

Castiel turns to face Dean, who’s still holding his knife. 

“Hello, Dean,” he says. I swear his voice drops an octave. His wings even puff out a little. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean demands.

“My name is Castiel,” the angel says. “I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.”

Aw. So sweet.

Dean’s grip tightens on his knife. The handprint on his arm is glowing through his jacket with the same light as Castiel.

All this glowing is making my head hurt.

“Great. Thanks for that,” Dean says.

Castiel inclines his head. I don’t think he gets the concept of sarcasm. If he hangs around us mortals and abominations long enough, he’ll learn.

“I still don’t believe angels exist,” Dean tells the angel. “And if they do I’m pretty sure they don’t wear trenchcoats.”

Oh, great. I’m probably about to be subjected to more glowing.

Castiel’s eyes light up blue and the shadows of enormous wings spread out behind him.

Dean looks briefly awed before he regains his look of skepticism.

“So why save me?” he demands.

“Because we have work for you,” Castiel says.

And _there’s_ the catch. I was wondering when it would show up.

Sam and Singer wake up after Castiel leaves.

“Was he really an angel?” Sam asks, all starry-eyed. His face crumples when Dean nods.

“I shot an angel,” Sam whispers. “Oh God.”

“He didn’t seem too phased, if that helps,” I tell him. “Castiel, that is. Not God. God might mind that you shot an angel.” 

Sam doesn’t seem to be consoled. The sooner he gets over his religious reverence, the sooner he’ll be happy. 

I’ve met Lucifer. You get over the awe of angels pretty quickly once you’ve seen the Lightbringer decapitating Hellions.

“Hey, Singer,” I say. Singer looks at me balefully from over his glass. “You know what a nephilim is? The angel called me one.”

Singer does a spit take.

Well. That ain’t a good sign.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because tomorrow's Thanksgiving.  
Hope you like this chapter! :)

“You’re saying I’m half angel?”

“No, I’m saying that Castiel said that you’re half angel.” Singer slams the dusty book in front of him shut. “I ain’t saying you’re anything. That would explain why you could talk to him though. This says nephilim can speak Enochian.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” I finish the last of my beer. “Like there’s not enough shit going on.”

“Amen to that.”

Across from me, Sam and Dean are communicating exclusively through eye contact.

“Well, I’m going to bed,” Dean says, standing up and stretching. “Sammy, you coming?”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna be here in the morning?” Dean asks me.

“What am I, a one night stand? I already told you, I’m sticking around.”

“Just checking. Night, Bobby,” Dean says.

When the Winchesters are upstairs, Singer directs his attention on me.

I grab the whiskey. This doesn’t look like it’s going to be a fun conversation.

“Dean says he doesn’t remember Hell,” Singer says.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say so I don’t say anything.

“Is he telling the truth?”

“I don’t know,” I lie. 

“If he is, then why do you remember?”

“I don’t know. Might be that whole nephilim thing.”

Singer seems to accept that. He refills his glass too.

Whiskey doesn’t burn away the memories the way Aqua Regia does but it’s the best I’ve got right now.

“So how long was it?” Singer asks.

“What?”

“How long did you spend in Hell?”

“I already told you. Eleven years.”

“You said it was longer down there,” Singer persists. “How long was it?”

“I had a hundred year anniversary fight a while back. That’s the last thing I remember keeping track of.”

He stares at me. “A hundred years in Hell. Christ. And you remember all of it?”

Truth be told, I don’t even know. It all blends together. Throw in the years I spent in that dark hole, the indeterminate amount of time I was drugged out of my mind, the time I spent in high-ranking Hellions’ beds--

Well. I don’t really remember how long some things lasted.

Plus, there’s the fact that time moves faster in Alastair’s domain and slower around Lucifer.

“Depends,” I tell him. I would never tell him this sober. “Some of it’s clear. Some of it isn’t. And time is different down there in places.”

Singer’s eyes are dark and knowing. “The bad stuff sticks out, huh?”

I stand up.

“I’m gonna go pass out.”

Singer waves a hand. “See ya tomorrow, son.”

He’s drunk. Still, it’s an unwelcome reminder of my father.

Was the man who raised me even my father? 

I decide I’m too drunk to think about this shit and sprawl onto the bed in Singer’s guest room.

In my dreams Alice bleeds out on the arena floor over and over again while Alastair and Dean watch from the stands.

When I wake up, I use the Room to get to the sketchiest bar in LA I can think of.

I walk out twenty minutes later behind a rich asshole who’s got a prostitute on one arm.

I follow them into the alley and then mutter some less deadly hoodoo. He drops like a rock and I step forward. He’ll wake up in an hour with a pounding headache and no memory of why.

“What the hell?” the prostitute-- Jamie, her name is Jamie-- demands.

I rummage through the rich guy’s pockets and steal his wallet. I fold half the money and hand it to Jamie. 

“Fair?” I ask her.

She counts the money and shrugs. “Sure.”

I feel no remorse in robbing douchebags. It’s almost a moral obligation, really. 

If you’re going to hit on the bartender and then call her a slur, I’d say you deserve to get mugged.

Besides, I’m broke. I’ll call it making up for missing eleven years of Christmas presents.

I go through the nearest shadow and to the gas station I woke up at yesterday. 

I’m back at Singer’s house and smoking on his porch before anyone else wakes up. Not bad.

“Those things will kill you, you know,” Singer tells me when I come inside.

“Hell didn’t. I’m pretty sure a pack of cigarettes won’t do jackshit.”

Singer raises his eyebrows and hands me a cup of coffee. I raise it in a salute before taking a sip.

“They make you reek, even if you’ve decided you’re immune to mutagens.”

I sniff my arm and can’t smell anything. After so long Downtown I’ve gotten used to the smell of smoke, I guess.

“Have you taken a shower since you got back?” Singer asks.

I stare at him blankly. “No?”

Showers are the kind of luxury I hadn’t even considered.

“Okay. Go take one.”

“Don’t give me orders.”

Singer studies my face. “I don’t think you’re used to being out of Hell. That’s all.”

I flex my fingers, trying to get rid of the restless tension in my muscles. “Okay.”

He pauses like he didn’t expect me to give in that easily.

I’m not that much of an asshole, am I?

Who am I kidding. Of course I am. It’s a point of pride.

“You can probably borrow some of Dean’s clothes,” Singer tells me. 

“Who’s borrowing what now?” Dean asks from the table.

“Stark’s borrowing some of your clothes so he doesn’t have to wear those rags,” Singer says.

I look down. Admittedly these clothes have seen better days. The shirt’s from Alice, though. I’ll keep that one.

Dean points at me. “Don’t get blood on any of my stuff.”

“No promises.”

Staring at the shower stream I decide Singer was right. I don’t remember how to be a person.

The thought of wasting the amount of water it takes to run a shower makes my heart speed up. It would have taken years to find that much in Hell and I’m about to use it to stop smelling like smoke.

I make myself strip and step in anyway. It’s cold but when I fiddle with the handles it turns hot and that’s worse.

I get out after my lungs start seizing up. I pull on Dean’s clothes-- they don’t fit quite right and he gave me a fucking Def Leppard shirt, but they’re not too bad-- and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are less distant than panicked.

I’m Sandman motherfuckin’ Slim, the monster who kills monsters. I can handle taking a shower. I can handle going back to a normal-- well, a kind of fucked up semblance of normal-- life.

The only reason I leave the bathroom is my coffee.

I pull a chair out at the table and put a healthy splash of whiskey in my coffee. Singer and Sam side-eye me but don’t comment. Dean, on the other hand, reaches out his hand for the bottle. 

Sam glares at me hard enough that I don’t pass it over. Dean rolls his eyes and picks up his fork again.

“You got any hunts, Bobby?” Dean asks once he’s done with his eggs. He and both bolted down our food. That’s out of habit, I think. I know I didn’t get much food Downtown for a long time and Alastair was exactly the kind of dick who would control someone by starving them.

The years I didn’t get much food were in part due to him. 

Huh. Good to know that anger is still fresh. Nothing like a jolt of pure rage to wake you up.

Sam looks unhappy at Dean’s question. He stabs his eggs a little more forcefully than he needs to.

Bobby takes a sip of coffee. “I could probably find something. You sure that’s a good idea, though?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Dean asks. His voice is a little too bright. 

“Because we’re still not really sure what’s going on,” Sam snaps before Singer can respond. “Because you just got back. And because he--” Sam stabs his fork at me “--is still hanging around.”

I lean back in my chair to watch the fireworks. Singer shakes his head and walks out of the room.

“Angels brought me back for some reason, I’m doing fine, and Stark, uh, Stark…”

Dean glances at me. “Stark is, uh, well, he’s here. And hasn’t killed anyone besides Ruby, who deserved it anyway.”

Damn. Quit it with the sweet talk, Winchester. You’re making me blush.

“Yet,” Sam mutters. “I’m still waiting for his face to show up on CNN as a murder suspect.”

If I didn’t have a kill count that’s higher than Steven Tyler was in the seventies I might be offended.

Dean sighs. “What’s your real problem here, Sammy?”

“I bet the headaches are starting to get bad,” I tell Dean. “The hallucinations usually start up after two, three days, too. That’s probably why he’s acting like someone pissed in his cereal.”

“Okay, asshole, I’ve had it with you.” Sam stands up. 

I smile lazily and tip my chair back onto two legs. “What? I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen plenty of blood addicts in my time. It’s not like you’re any different.”

“I was drinking it to help people!”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure the fact the girl she was riding was a hot piece of ass had nothing to do with it.”

Sam starts towards me, ignoring Dean’s urgent protests. 

I pop my neck and let my chair fall back to the floor.

Dean knows what I can do. What I’m capable of.

Sam has no real idea, but he’s about to find out.

Luckily for him, that’s the moment the door slams and the first ghost shows up.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, “you can kill someone by doing nothing" is not an original sentence but for the life of me I could not remember where it came from. So credit to the original author, whoever it may be, and I hope they don't mind. Any other lines you recognize are probably from SS and I obviously don’t own those either.  
Just so y’all know the next chapter isn’t written yet. I’ll do my best to get it done by next Thursday but that might not happen.

I don’t know who she is. She’s got blonde, choppy hair, looks maybe twenty or twenty-five, and at the sight of her Sam’s face goes from anger to guilt.

“Hey boys,” she says. “Remember me?”

“Meg?” Dean asks. He’s got his gun out. 

“Uh-huh. I’m not that demon, though. I’m that girl you dumped out a window and let die on this carpet, the one that was expendable.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “God, I’m so sorry--”

“God has nothing to do with it!” the ghost spits. Her figure flickers. “It was all your fucking fault!”

‘Meg’ vanishes and the door unlocks. The Winchesters look shaken.

“What was that about me ending up on CNN for murder?” I ask.

I get two venomous glares and no response.

“Y’all gonna find Singer, or…”

It takes a minute for them to catch on.

“Shit,” Dean says, awareness dawning. “Bobby.”

Did his brain cells get overexposed to angelic glowing or something?

I trail along behind them as they look for Singer. Dean turns to me when that results in nothing. 

“Find him.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a police dog.”

“Do your…” he waves a hand. 

“My magic?”

He makes a face like he just bit into a lemon. “Yeah.”

“I’d need a map.”

“You can’t do anything else?” Sam asks.

“I could set the whole place on fire if that’s what you want. I’m good at that kind of thing.”

“No arena hoodoo,” Dean says. 

Sam stares at his brother.

I can hear the moment Dean realizes he’s fucked up.

“You wouldn’t be able to stop me if I wanted to,” I tell Dean, because I’ve never been what you might call  _ good with authority. _ I ignore the surge of gratefulness that goes through Dean's thoughts as I distract Sam. I’m just making a point. 

Singer seems like a decent guy. He gave me booze and didn’t press about the bad shit.

“You checked everywhere?”

“Yes,” Dean snaps. “Even checked the entire scrapyard.”

I scan the aisles of junkers. “You checked inside the cars?”

“ _ Yes. _ ”

“The ones on top of the piles?”

There’s another moment where I can see the Winchesters’ brain cells waking up.

Sam curses and they both bolt for the nearest stacks of cars.

I’m the one who finds him.

The two creepy-ass ghost girls holding Singer hiss and try to bite me, but I drag him out.

I can’t be hurt by the same thing in the same place twice. Who knew I’d ever be grateful to that one soul who bit me on the hand before I stabbed him. I don’t want ghost rabies.

The girls come after us, of course, because my life is a fucking shitshow on all accounts. Once we’re on the ground I bark some Hellion and they disappear along with the car in a wave of fire. It’s satisfying.

Kids are creepy. Especially dead ones.

Singer stares at me. “James?”

“Present.”

He pulls out of my grip. “That was, uh, impressive.”

Before I can feel proud of myself, he adds, “And stupid. You just pissed them off.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever, Singer.”

“Bobby,” he corrects. “You save my life, you can call me Bobby.”

“Whatever, Singer.”

“Idjit,” Bobby mutters, but he’s smiling.

I think we’re having a moment.

Thankfully the Winchesters start yelling and we have an excuse to stop talking.

They've got themselves cornered in a workshop shed by another ghost. This one is a man with a shaved head who reeks of cop.

"Henriksen," Bobby informs me. "He was a--"

"Cop?" I ask.

"Fed. But yeah. How'd you know?"

Henriksen turns towards us. 

The Winchesters scramble out of the corner. Finally, a glimpse of intelligence.

"All cops basically look the same," I inform Bobby. I keep my eyes on Henriksen. "They've all got the same judgemental look."

"And all criminals have the same dead look," Henriksen says. He looks offended. 

"Nah, that's just the trailer trash part," I tell him. "Criminal look is separate."

Bobby raises his eyebrows. 

"What? It is." I turn back to the fed. "Why are you going after the Winchesters?"

"They got me killed," Henriksen says. 

"It wasn't our fault," Sam argues. Dean stays silent. 

I think I'm starting to get the pattern here.

"Did they kill you?" I ask.

"They let me die."

"Not the same thing."

It's not. Not in this case, anyway. Yeah, you can kill someone by doing nothing, but failing to save someone isn't the same thing.

"We left him and Lilith got to him," Dean says. His voice is even rougher than usual.

Sam steps on his brother's foot before I have to. Fuck, Dean, stop trying to get yourself sent back Downtown. I don’t want to have to deal with a crowd of Hellions trying to kill me when I drag your ass back out.

"Still ain't your fault."

Henriksen flickers to stand in front of us. "They let me die."

"Good for you. Fuck off." I stab him through the gut with the black knife. He disappears in a blast of cold air.

Glad that worked. Wasn't sure it would.

"What is that knife?" Sam asks.

I stash it back in my boot. "Bone. I think."

"What kind of--"

"Sam, you can nerd out later," Dean says. "Right now we have to figure out what the hell is going on."

That could almost be the title of my autobiography.

Dean and I lay down heavy salt lines while Sam and Bobby frantically rummage through books.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any weird half-angel insight into this?” Dean asks me. 

“Nope.” Considering how odd these ghosts are acting, it might be a seal. I don’t remember the specifics of most of them. There was something about killing a priest, something about a whore, definitely something about a shit ton of demons. And, of course, there was something about a Righteous Man spilling blood, and someone killing Lilith.

I have a brief internal struggle about speaking up. On the one hand, it might help resolve this whole mess sooner. On the other, I’d have to talk more, and I hate talking.

“It’s the rising of the Witnesses,” Bobby announces.

Right. That was it. The vengeful ghosts one.

Hey, there’s a lot of Seals. I can’t be expected to remember all of them.

“Which means what?” Dean asks.

“It’s a sign of the oncoming apocalypse,” Bobby says.

I’ll tell them about the Seals later. They've got the gist.

“So how do we get rid of them?” I ask.

“There’s a ritual, should have everything here…” Bobby trails off as he starts rummaging through his desk.

The Winchesters and I stand around feeling useless until Meg shows up again.

She stands beyond the salt lines glaring at us.

“You killed me. I’m going to kill you.”

“Yeah, but will that really make you feel better?” I ask her, the black knife in my right hand and my left ready to throw a spell. I’ll have to be careful. Bobby might be mad if I demolish his house and the magic I picked up Downtown isn’t exactly delicate.

They should have given me a gun. 

“Yes,” she says. “It’ll feel really, really good.”

Fair enough. People who say revenge won't make you feel better have never killed someone. If they had they'd know revenge makes you feel so much better about the people you you had to bury.

The salt holds for a few minutes before the creepy kids get smart and blow it apart. Then it’s time to play whack-a-ghost.

Bobby finishes the ritual in a blast of blue fire before I have to throw any arena hoodoo. The ghosts disappear.

The four of us stare at the places where they’d stood.

“How come you didn’t have anyone haunting you?” Sam asks me.

“Maybe 'cause I’ve never killed anyone, or gotten anyone killed, and regretted it.”

Except Alice. 

_ You can kill someone by doing nothing. _

It’s a good thing she’s an angel now because I don’t think I could have dealt with her ghost blaming me.

“Never?” Sam repeats.

“It was me or them, so yeah. Never.”

The first time I killed, I got about as sick as I ever had for days. The second time, I felt just as sick, but it only lasted a day. The third time, I changed my shirt and went out for a drink.

After that killing didn’t feel like much of anything. If I was going to regret anything, it would have been the first one, but it had been them or me.

If I died, Alice would have. And that was something I would have killed everyone up to and including Lucifer himself to prevent.

Sam doesn’t get it. Dean and Bobby just might.

Sam isn’t what most people would call innocent, but in comparison to me, he’s just a kid. I don’t know what Bobby did. I could probably find out if I tried but I’ve had too many people fuck with my head to do that to someone else without a real reason.

Dean… I’ve seen what Dean’s capable of, even if the whole Righteous Man schtick means he feels shitty about what he did for Alastair. Anyone whose eyes go that cold has killed someone, washed the blood off, and slept well.

“Right.” Bobby clears his throat. “Anyone else want a sandwich?”

I think that sounds like the best idea I’ve heard since I got back.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for not posting last week-- sorry about that, it was kind of a weird week-- you get an extra-long chapter. It kinda just… kept going…  
Italics means Hellion.  
Warnings from both fandoms apply. Please feel free to ask if you want more info and let me know if I portray anything inaccurately. I do research and stuff but assume I know nothing about anything just to be safe.  
The title to remind me what this chapter is about is “Stark is an unmitigated asshole but he has a heart”, so that’s what you’re getting into. He’s probably not as much of an asshole as he is canonically, but I did my best.

Sam and Dean bicker enough about their respective snoring that Dean decides to take the guest room with me.

“Don’t bitch at me about your back in the morning,” Sam says. “Or Stark’s snoring.”

“I will,” Dean says cheerfully. 

Sam sighs heavily.

There’s something else they’re arguing about-- no way Dean would choose to sleep in the same room as me under normal circumstances-- but I don’t ask. 

I’m about to head upstairs when Bobby calls, “Stark? You got a toothbrush?”

I have to think about that. “Uh, no.”

“That explains why your breath smells like a raccoon carcass,” Sam says.

“You try spending a hundred-odd years without mouthwash.”

Sam stares at me. “You--”

“Here,” Singer says, chucking a toothbrush at me. I catch it. 

I stare at the toothbrush. It’s a small thing. I don’t understand why my hands are shaking.

“Go brush your teeth,” Bobby says. “Last thing we need right now is to have to get you a root canal.”

I use Dean’s toothpaste. 

“How are we going to do this?” Dean asks. “Bed probably isn’t big enough for both of us.”

There’s no way I’d be able to sleep next to someone in the foreseeable future. If I tried with Dean tonight, I’d probably wake up and try to kill him.

“Yeah, that wouldn’t work. I’ll take the floor.”

“You’re volunteering to sleep on the floor?”

“Mattress is too soft.” I couldn’t shake the feeling I was about to fall through it last night. Guess I wasn’t drunk enough to sleep deeply enough.

“This is a shitty mattress, Stark.”

I shrug off Dean’s jacket and fold it up for a pillow. “_ It’s fine _.”

Dean seems to think about his next words. 

“This ain’t my business--” he starts.

“Oh boy. Here we go.”

“--but you seem to be even more fucked up than I am.”

I start unlacing my boots. They’re held together with black tape. I’ll have to replace them soon. Kicking the shit out of that carjacker took a lot off their lifespan. “Fuck off. It’s not like you’re much less broken than I am."

Dean shuts up. He pulls his shirt off. Apart from Castiel’s handprint-- does Dean know what that means?-- Dean’s skin is smooth and unscarred, and his muscles...

Well, damn. I can see why Pamela was into him. I mean, I could before, but still. 

Damn.

“When we start hunting again, that’ll make things easier, I guess” Dean says. “We’ll only have to rent one room.”

“_ You’re letting me stick around, then _?”

He slides under the sheets. “_ Do I have a choice?” _

“_ Not really _.”

Dean props his head up on his hand to look at me. Moonlight falls across his face. “_ I trust that you’re telling the truth about protecting me. You’ve got no love for Hellions, you’re Sandman Slim, and I’d be stupid to turn your protection down _.”

“_ Fair enough _.”

“You don’t want a blanket or anything?”

“Nah. _ I’m going to sleep now _.”

“Night, Stark.”

To my irritation, Dean wakes me up not long after. He sits up suddenly and the movement makes me go for my knife.

When nothing attacks me, I blink a few times and focus on Dean. He looks shaken.

“_ Lilith is trying to let Lucifer out _,” he says.

“_ Yup _.”

“_ You knew _?”

“_ Yup _.”

“_ What the fuck, Stark _,” he says flatly.

I turn my back to him. “_ Go back to sleep, Dean. _Ain’t nothing we can do about it right now.”

“_ Asshole, _” he hisses. His Hellion somehow has a Midwestern accent, which is just… incredibly terrible. It grates across my ears like a razor.

“_ Takes one to know one _.”

I don’t think either of us get much sleep the rest of the night.

“Lucifer,” Sam repeats.

“Apparently,” Dean sighs, “Yeah.”

“Great,” Bobby says. “Just… fucking fantastic.”

I offer him the whiskey bottle. He adds a healthy dose to his coffee. 

Man after my own heart.

“And you knew about this?” Bobby asks me.

“I had an idea. The angels are supposed to stop it, though. I didn’t want you three to freak out over something you can’t control.”

“Little too late for that,” Sam snaps.

I take a bite of eggs. Bobby is a surprisingly good cook.

“We’ll figure it out,” Dean says firmly. “Castiel will tell us what to do.”

Nobody argues. I drink my coffee and wonder if I’ll ever see Alice again. 

Sam’s face is still pale, but the junkie seems to be doing okay. He must not have been drinking blood too regularly if he’s not hallucinating.

That’s good. I’m going a little stir-crazy. Driving around and killing things sounds pretty nice, and it’s hard to do that with a guy who’s going nuts.

“Lucifer’s actually pretty decent,” I tell them. “I don’t think he wants to destroy the world, but if the Cage breaks and he can leave Hell, he won’t let Michael kill him.”

If I thought that would help them calm down, I was wrong.

After a lot of confusion and yelling at me, the Winchesters and I say goodbye to Bobby. The two brothers get in the front and I stretch out in the back. Apparently there’s a vengeful spirit in Montana.

“We should get you some clothes,” Dean says as he pulls onto the highway. “I like that shirt and you’ll probably get bullet holes in it.”

I shrug. It’s all the same to me. “I don’t like this shirt. I don’t like Def Leppard.”

Dean retaliates by blasting Def Leppard through most of South Dakota.

It takes all of my willpower not to hide out in the Room to make the assault on my eardrums stop.

Sam turns around to look at me when Dean finally turns the music down. “You’ve met Lucifer?”

“Yeah.” I thought that had been established, but hey, maybe they were all yelling at me about something else.

“What’s he like?”

Dean watches me in the rearview mirror.

How the fuck do I explain Lucifer?

“He’s… he’s one scary motherfucker,” is what I settle on. 

“The Bible says he’s beautiful,” Sam says. “The brightest angel of all.”

Christ. This kid needs to lay off the reading. He sounds like a Satanic groupie. He isn’t wrong, though.

“Yeah. He’s all power and silk suits. He’s that one guy at a party you know you shouldn’t fuck but you bring home anyway.”

Sam opens his mouth to ask another question. Dean snorts and turns the volume up again.

We get a motel room outside Billings.

God, this is weird. I’d never spent much time outside California and I sure as hell haven’t spent time where there’s more farms than people. 

At least it’s not Iowa. I read Children of the Corn.

Dean takes the bed closest to the door. I steal a blanket and pillow from the couch and, after muttering a quick spell to kill any bugs in the room, put them on the ground.

I might have spent a long time Downtown, but I don’t need to risk lice.

“You don’t want the couch?” Sam asks, frowning.

“Sam,” Dean warns. 

It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter.

I’m Sandman Slim, and I’ll kill anyone who tries to touch me again.

Sam’s eyebrows move into the expression Dean refers to as his “bitchface”. 

“I’m not even allowed to ask about this?” Sam demands.

I say it before I think too hard about it. I’m tired of this moron hating me for saving his stupid ass.

“The only times I slept somewhere comfortable were when I was done being fucked by the Hellion of the night,” I tell him. “You done? Want me to give you the specifics?”

The room goes silent.

“Yeah. Thought so. I’m going to the nearest bar.”

I slam the door behind me and slip through the nearest shadow. 

After the third shot of vodka, the room stops flashing back to Hell. 

After the fifth, I feel numb enough to head back. 

I leave a large tip. The pretty bartender’s genuine smile makes me feel a little better, but not enough.

I want to pick a fight. I want to make something bleed. I want to see my own blood. Maybe that would make me stop feeling like my skin is too small. 

I’m fucked up. I knew that before I went down. A century of constantly fighting and killing didn’t help. 

I don’t start anything, though. Alice wouldn’t want me to do that. I doubt any human jail could hold me with the Key, but I don’t know how long I’m supposed to follow the Winchesters around and if I’m a wanted man it might complicate things. 

The alcohol in my system almost lets me ignore the restlessness.

I light a cigarette and walk back to the room. 

I count my steps.

Eleven, eleven, eleven.

When I knock, Sam yanks the door open immediately. 

“I’m sorry,” he says in a rush. “I didn’t realize--”

I blow smoke into his face and toss the cigarete over my shoulder into the parking lot. “Unless you want to get stabbed, shut the fuck up.”

He coughs, nods, and shuts up.

The fuck did he think Hell was, anyway? 

Jesus Christ, he’s young and stupid. 

I haven’t ruled out stabbing him, even if his puppy eyes are something to be feared. I’ll carve his goddamn eyes out if he looks at me like he pities me.

“Where’s Dean?” I ask.

I should have stayed within eyesight of him. I need to stop letting whatever’s going on with my fucked-up head keep me from doing my job. 

He seems like he’d be a good drinking buddy, too. We could go through a bottle of whiskey and not have to talk to anyone.

“He left to follow you.”

The vodka buzz feels a lot less strong all of a sudden.

We find Dean standing by a streetlight half a mile away. Sam parks the Impala and jumps out.

“What the hell, Dean?” he hisses. “You can’t just vanish like that.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice, Sammy,” Dean says, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Cas just showed up and zapped me into the past.”

Dean explains about his little adventure. His mom, Azazel, everybody dying. 

It’s all the kind of bullshit I’d expect from angels. They’re obsessed with fate.

“You saw mom?” Sam breathes. I tune out. People who are fond of their parents are outside my comfort zone.

Dean parks in the lot in front of the motel room and turns to look at me. “Stark? Cas said, and I’m quoting here, so please don’t kill me, “the Abomination did well in killing the demon. We shall continue to not smite it for existing.”

“Love when people call me ‘it’,” I remark, and I head inside to brush the taste of vodka out of my mouth.

The next person who calls me ‘it’ or ‘abomination’ is finding out how their lungs look as throw pillows. I’m not afraid of the halo squad.

Dean and I wake each other up with our dreams several times. As far as I can tell, Sam sleeps through the night. Withdrawals are probably sapping some of his energy. 

I give up on sleep around four am, pull on the jacket I’m borrowing, and head outside for a smoke. Dean joins me a few minutes later. 

I offer him the pack. He shakes his head. “Sam said if he can’t drink demon blood to help people, I can’t give myself lung cancer.”

I slide the pack into my pocket. “Cancer’s just one of the great benefits of smoking.”

Dean looks at me like he’s not sure if I’m being sarcastic.

“I’m joking. If I wanted to kill myself, I’d just take the most efficient route.”

He stares at me. “Uh, you okay, man?”

Hell, I’m not sure. I don’t want to think about it too hard.

“Let’s get breakfast,” I say, standing and stretching.

“Sure.” Dean pulls the Impala’s keys out. “First, though, we should hit up a thrift store, so I can get my shirt back.”

“Are there even thrift stores open at four?”

“Let’s find out.”

We end up having to drive around a little first. Dean buys coffee at a gas station and we sip it as the Impala purrs along the road. 

Moving seems to keep the itch under my skin tamped down. I could get used to just driving and killing, never staying in one spot long enough to have to learn people’s names.

That’s probably good, considering I have no plan besides following Dean around and all the Winchesters do is drive and kill things.

Sometime around five thirty, Dean says, “Sam’s being a dick because he doesn’t have a fucking clue.”

“I noticed.”

“Thanks for not stabbing him.”

Finally, some semi-realistic expectations. If only my high school guidance counselor had taken that approach.

Dean and I show up back at the room with coffee, breakfast, and a battered duffel bag filled with my new possessions.

It’s weird, having stuff to carry around, having things to take with you. It makes the itch under my skin worse.

The Winchesters pull on their cheap suits. Dean adjusts his jacket and pauses when he sees me.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Sam?”

“Yeah?” Sam pokes his head out of the bathroom.

“What are we gonna do with Stark?”

“Right here,” I remind him. “I have ears.”

“You think you could pretend to be a fed?” 

Dean sounds skeptical. I’d be insulted if he hadn’t met me.

“I don’t think feds travel in groups of three.” Unless that’s changed, too.

“He’s right,” Sam says. “Uh, he could stay here?” 

It’s cute that he still thinks he can get rid of me.

“No. I’m supposed to stay with Dean. The last time I didn’t, we nearly had to put out an amber alert on his ass.”

“That’s not what an…” Sam sighs. “Fine. You want to be a bodyguard or a counselor? I think we can avoid raising too much suspicion with either of those.”

Dean chokes. “Sam--”

“I think I’ll be an excellent grief counselor,” I say. “I’m a certified headcase, what could go wrong?”

Dean says, “_ If you traumatize some poor housewife and her kids, I will leave you by the side of the road in Nebraska. At night. _”

That’s possibly the only threat that could phase me anymore.

“I need to get you two to tell me about this language,” Sam says. “Maybe I could write a dictionary or something.” Nerd.

“We’re planning our sleepover,” I tell him. “Dean thinks we should braid your hair.”

“We’re so sorry for everything you’ve experienced, Ms. Rivers,” Sam says. His eyes are all soulful and soft. Anita Rivers practically melts.

“Thank you, Agent,” she says. She blows her nose. “It’s… it’s been so difficult.”

“We’re sorry to intrude,” Dean adds. “We’ll just need to ask you a few questions.”

“Is this about the trial?” she asks. “They said it was self-defense--”

“No.” Dean cuts her off. “Not at all. We know your husband was going to hurt your daughter, and we aren’t here to dig any of that up. We’re here because you’ve reported some… strange accidents.”

“Oh. Yes.” She wraps her arms tighter around herself. The Winchesters wait. I occupy myself by looking around the living room. It’s a nice house. There’s pictures everywhere of a kid with red hair smiling. Maxine, I’m guessing. The kid she killed her husband for.

“You’ll think I’m nuts. Everyone else does.”

“Try us,” Dean says.

“It started about two months after Cole died,” Anita mumbles hesitantly. “Things started moving on their own, cold spots, that kind of thing.”

Dean nods. “Lights flickering, strange smells?”

“The lights, yeah. Mostly in my room.”

“We believe you.”

“Yeah, well, this next part sounds even crazier.” Anita clears her throat. “I started seeing him a few weeks after that. Standing on the stairs, his neck broken. Like he’s just walked up them after I shoved him.”

“I see.”

Anita takes a moment to collect herself.

“He keeps saying I’m a murderer,” she whispers. “I killed him. I put my daughter through all of this. I live with the guilt every waking moment. Isn’t this punishment enough? Why won’t he leave me alone?”

“You shouldn’t feel bad about defending yourself,” I tell her. Sam and Dean both startle noticeably. I ignore them. “Or for saving Maxine. You protected her. You did what was necessary. Just because you’re a killer doesn’t make you a murderer.”

Her face crumples. I wonder if anyone’s told her this yet. It’s not like it’s hard to see or anything.

“Really?” she asks tentatively. “You really think that?”

“I know that.” 

“How? How do you know that… How can you be sure?”

I lean forward, pretending not to notice Dean’s aborted reach to hold me back. He knows that I’m ready to rip his arm off if he does something I don’t like.

“My father beat the shit out of me,” I tell her. “Put me in the hospital a few times. Tried to shoot me once.”

I hear the Winchesters inhale sharply. Anita’s eyes are huge, but she’s still looking at me, and that’s what matters.

It’s been long enough since I was a kid that it doesn’t bother me too much to talk about. If it helps this lady who’s tearing herself up over something she won’t get sent to Hell for, I don’t mind bringing it up.

She’s a good person and God knows I’ve got no right to throw stones. I’ve got enough to make up for.

I wonder if Alice is watching. She always told me I wasn’t broken. I want to prove her right.

“My mother didn’t do anything about it. I never stopped wishing she would.” 

I’d loved my mother, but she’d just buried herself in sickly-sweet alcohol and Valium and ignored the shit the man who raised me had done. I’m still not sure if I blame her.

“You saved Maxine,” I say. “You saved yourself. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“Okay,” she says. She nods to herself and takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

Dean pulls away from the curb after leaving Anita with a business card.

“Was that true?” Sam asks. “That your dad--”

“Yeah. Fuck off.”

“You actually make a decent grief counselor,” Dean comments.

“Like I said. Certified head case.”

We track down the asshole’s remains easily enough.

Dean hands me a shovel. “You know how to dig?”  
I hate yard work. Digging graves is so inefficient.

I’m not so good at improvising hoodoo anymore, but I chant a few phrases I remember from before Hell and do my best not to blow anything up. If there’s a few sparks that I have to smother with my boots, no one mentions it.

Five feet of dirt lifts from the grave. It piles itself to one side. 

I take a few seconds to catch my breath. Sometimes delicate hoodoo is harder than large-scale stuff. Given that I haven’t done much precision work since I got sent Downtown, that makes sense.

Sam goggles at me. Right, junkie over here hasn’t seen real magic before.

“That’s my part done,” I tell him. “You get the joy of cracking the coffin lid.”

We get halfway through our second celebratory round of drinks before Dean’s phone goes off. He talks to whoever called for a minute and hangs up.

“Ever heard of a rugaru, Stark?” he asks, finishing off his beer. 

“Nope. But I haven’t met anything yet I couldn’t kill.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I need to make nearly every character I write LGBTQ+? Yes. Yes I do.   
Also, uh, Stark saying Lucifer was the guy you’d take home from a party had me convinced he wasn’t straight for like a solid two books. So.  
This chapter was called "Jay channels their hatred for the Midwest." That’s kind of just my general state of existence at this point.  
Hope everyone's holidays are going well!

Dean and I stay at the bar long enough to make a very long line of shot glasses.

The bartender’s a guy this time. Slow smile, flashing eyes, nice arms, edges of curling tattoos visible when his sleeves ride up. We make eye contact and I get that weird little flash of information. 

His name’s Chris. He’s interested, for some reason. 

Maybe he’s never seen real danger before, let alone fucked it. A town like this, it wouldn’t surprise me. The worst you’d get is the local alcoholics who beat their wives, maybe. A couple crackheads who live in trailer parks. The homophobes who would try to have a straight pride parade.

He winks at me.

In another life, maybe I would ask when he got off work. Maybe I would ask him for his number, or if he’s free tomorrow night, or if he wants to come back to my place.

In another life. If I didn’t look like I’d spent my whole life getting run over by lawnmowers. If I didn’t think being touched by someone would make me want to rip their throat out. If I wasn’t one wrong word away from either freezing up or killing someone.

I leave a fifty dollar tip and don’t ask when he gets off of work.

Sorry, Chris. I’m babysitting the apprentice of the best torturer in Hell and the thought of touching you makes my skin crawl. 

In another life I would have bought you drinks with my stolen money all night long. 

We pack up and head to Carthage, Missouri.

Dean drives like he’s trying to give a Driver’s Ed teacher a heart attack. I approve. I’m getting sick of riding in the backseat, though. Maybe I can get away with stealing a motorcycle or a car. If I replaced the plates, the cops wouldn’t have much luck finding it. I could always stash it in the Room if necessary.

From what Sam tells us, I'm guessing Carthage is the kind of dying shithole town without many rich people to steal from. I’ll have to wait, then. 

The trick to committing grand auto theft is to steal the nicest cars. That way you know they have insurance.

Maybe I’ll head back to LA, walk around Beverly Hills, and relieve some rich oil executive of his half a million-dollar car. Or maybe one of those stupid gluten-free calorie-free taste-free vegan restaurants in Palisades. There’s gotta be some motorcycles around there. 

I don’t belong here. 

I don't belong driving around to the part of the United States that nobody remembers or cares about. I don't belong surrounded by corn and soybeans and people who gave up on getting out a long time ago. 

All the towns we pass through look like the stereotypical dying towns you hear about, the ones where the factories went out of business and everybody who could left.

God, I miss LA. I miss Pandemonium. 

LA was at least alive. The whole city is on crack cocaine and addicted to shitty music and plastic surgery and the traffic's something out of Lovecraft's nightmares, but it's undeniably alive. I miss LA. 

I miss my city. For all the hippies addicted to LSD and the bleached-blond washed-up actresses and the air quality worse than Hell’s, it’s still my city. 

I don’t belong out here.

But then, I don’t belong anywhere but the arena.

Killing is the one time I feel at home.

Burning that asshole’s bones made me feel a little better-- something about fire and the smell of burning flesh is soothing-- but that tension under my skin is building again. Killing some poor bastard who’s getting addicted to the wrong kind of red meat should help.

I get to get my death fix and save some people from getting eaten at once. I’m becoming Mother Theresa.

We end up spending the night at Bobby’s again. The route to Carthage is seventeen hours long and goes right through Sioux Falls.

Sam complains about his legs cramping until Dean gives in and turns towards Singer Salvage.

Bobby grumbles about spending thousands on groceries, but I think he’s glad to see Dean and Sam again.

While everyone else is at dinner, I slip through a shadow and into the Room. 

There’s a visit I’ve been putting off since I got back.

It’s stupid, but once I'm in the Room, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

This is the one place in the entire universe I can always be alone. No one gets in here unless I let them.

I head through the Door of Ice before I can get any more sentimental. 

I come out in the hallway of my old apartment building.

It’s as dingy as I remember it being. It was a shitty apartment, but it was mine for a while. Mine and Alice’s.

I think about kicking in the door. 

I knock, though. See? Look at that. Planning ahead and restraining my violent impulses. If there’s some crackhead in there, I can always deal with him. If it’s who I hope it is, then he might want to have a functioning door.

Vidocq opens the door with a vial in his hand. I spare a moment to be glad I didn’t kick the door in. His glare is something to be feared and that vial probably has some flesh-dissolving potion in it.

He stares at me.

“James?”

“In the fucked-up flesh.” I have to clear my throat. I’ve missed this French bastard more than I’d like to admit.

“ _ Comment _ ?”

“Tell me something only you would know first.”

Vidocq nods. “Ah, you think I am not me. Let me see… the first time you showed me what you could do with your magic, you broke one of my Erlenmeyer flasks. The liquid inside melted a hole in my carpet. You stole a rug to cover it up.”

Well, shit. That’s him.

“Hey, Vidocq,” I say. “Been a while.”

He pulls me into a bone-crushing hug. I tense a little, but it’s Vidocq. Vidocq is safe. I think he notices, though, because he lets me go faster than he usually does.

“Come inside,” he orders me, opening the door wide. “I’m sure you have many stories to tell.”

I step into the room Dean and I are still sharing around three am. I’m drunk and all I want to do is sleep. 

Dean jerks awake at the sound of my footsteps.

Shit.

“ _ Where the fuck have you been? _ ” he asks. “ _ I had to cover for you. Bobby was getting worried when you didn’t show up to dinner. _

Well, that’s weird. I’ve already got one old dude who’s concerned for my well-being. I don’t need another one.

“ _ I needed to see an old  _ friend _ . _ ”

“ _ You have _ friends?”

“Friend _ .  _ Singular _ . _ ” There isn’t a word for ‘friend’ in Hellion. Somehow ‘ally’ doesn’t quite cover Vidocq.

“ _ Still more than I would have expected. _ ”

“ _ At least I’ve got one  _ friend _ who isn’t dead. _ ”

His face switches from annoyed to pissed to resigned in about two seconds. I shouldn’t be able to see his face with this little light. Just another strange thing I’m going to ignore.

“Tell me how you got in and out, at least.”

“Nope.”

He’s going to argue about it. I can tell.

“ _ I’m working for the good guys. I gotta keep at last one escape route open." _

He rolls his eyes and turns over.

I wake up with a splitting headache.

Jesus, I somehow managed to forget how terrible a wine hangover can be. I haven’t got drunk off wine since I was fifteen and stealing from my mom’s stash. 

I only made that mistake once for this very reason.

“Wakey wakey, sunshine,” Dean chirps, louder than necessary. “Time to go drive seven and a half hours. Bobby’s cooking up a nice, greasy breakfast for you.”

I crack my eyes open enough to glare at him. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Just trying to help.”

“Like hell.”

He smirks and heads down the stairs. The sound of every footstep sends a wave of pain through my skull.

Right. Note to self: never. Fucking. Do. This. Again. The next time I get drunk with Vidocq I’m bringing my own booze.

I force myself to get out of my fetal ball and brush my teeth. My mouth tastes like it did that one time I had to live off rats for three weeks.

I use Sam’s mouthwash.

Coffee with a surreptitious splash of booze, a shower, and a greasy breakfast helps kill the headache. By the time we get onto the interstate, I feel a little more human.

Heh. Human. Sometimes I crack myself up.

I don't think I've ever been human.

"So what's the plan?" I ask. "We just gonna kill the guy?"

"Yes," Dean says, at the same time Sam says, "No."

Dean takes his eyes off the road long enough to give Sam a scathing look.

"I don't see why we wouldn't," Dean says. He's looking at me, but he's talking to Sam. "We all know how this is gonna turn out."

"Do we?" Sam asked, all righteous indignation and big brown eyes. "Because I don't know that we do."

I say, "Expecting this poor son of a bitch not to eat somebody's like expecting an alcoholic to be in a liquor store 24/7 and never take a drink."

"You'd know," Sam throws back.

I smile. From his face, it's not a pleasant expression. Good. It wasn't meant to be.

"You want to be a fucking hypocrite? Fine. It's like expecting a demon blood junkie to be surrounded by flasks of demon blood all the time and never drink it."

Sam turns to face out the front again.

"What Stark said," Dean says into the silence. Sam looks betrayed.

Aww, did big brother's feelings get hurt by his junkie baby brother fucking a demon? Is baby brother sad because big brother came back all damaged and broken? 

Let me find my tiniest violin and play a sad song for the two of them.

“Travis said he killed this guy’s father,” Dean says. “He said it’s the only way to stop them.”

Travis? Who the fuck names their kid  _ Travis _ ? 

Even my parents didn’t hate me that much. 

“I’ve been looking at the lore, and I think it might be possible for Jack to resist the change.” Sam points insistently at the laptop he’s holding. Either he downloaded a whole bunch of crap or his demon blood powers let him get wifi anywhere, in which case I want some demon blood myself.

Everything is so fast, now. My dial-up only worked half the time and now you can look stuff up on your tiny phones while driving. 

“Not to get in the way of your over-identifying with a monster, but I don’t think that’s how this is going to go.” Dean wants a fight. I roll my eyes and slump back in my seat. 

Here come the fireworks. It gets boring to watch the same argument over and over again.

“You know how hard it was, when you were gone?” Sam demands. “You know how hard it is to live with the knowledge that I’m-- I’m contaminated?”

“It is what you make of it,” Dean says. “You only feel bad about it because you choose to. And, oh yeah, when exactly were you going to tell me about the demon blood?”

“You didn’t need to know.”

“What--”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I snap. “Can you two just admit you’ve been lying to each other for stupid reasons and move on already?”

The next few hours are spent listening to the same cassette tape on repeat, but at least they stop arguing.

“Wait, what is Dean lying about?” Sam asks as we pull up to a cookie-cutter house in a cookie-cutter neighborhood. 

“Ask him.” I slam the door. 

The problem with lying is you forget who you’re lying to about what. Dean glares at me.

“Be nice to my baby, Stark.”

“Whatever. This neighborhood is giving me the creeps.”

“It’s nice,” Dean says. 

“Tell me you’re not one of those romantics who wants a white picket fence and 2.5 kids.”

“Wasn’t in the cards.”

Yeah. I know the feeling. Not that I’d ever wanted “normal”, but throwing crackheads out of the building would have gotten boring eventually.

If Alice ever wanted suburbia, I would have bought khaki shorts and polos and learned how to play golf. Learned how to cook, stopped smoking and drinking, took the meds, gotten a golden retriever and a job and 2.5 kids. 

Anything she wanted would have been okay. Anything.

Vidocq says he dumped her ashes in the sea. She died clean, if you count the bullet and not the cancer. 

Looks like Heaven does let in suicides.

“Let’s go tell Mr. Jack Montgomery he’s destined to become a cannibal,” I say. “I give it two sentences before he calls the cops."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably wouldn’t have been able to post tomorrow, so here you go!  
Sorry that the exact details aren’t right-- it’s been a while since I watched this episode. I’ll just chalk inaccuracies up to crossover-ness.  
This fic is going to be so long, y’all. I really did not plan this out. But hey, I’m having fun.  
I might gloss over a few episodes, but the plan is to cover season four.

Sam gets a whole six sentences in before Montgomery kicks us off his property.

“That went well,” I comment. “You ready to kill him now?”

“No,” Sam snaps. “Unlike you, I don’t get off on slaughtering innocent people.”

Dean watches me. It’s like he doesn’t trust me not to stab his brother or something.

“Not many innocent people in Hell.”

“For someone who hasn’t killed innocents you’re sure ready to try it.”

I don’t bother responding. Sam’s so desperate to redeem himself he’s convinced himself Montgomery can be saved.

He’ll get disillusioned soon enough. Nobody can be saved. It’s just a matter of how shitty things get.

We watch Montgomery follow a girl home. 

“That’s it.” 

I go to get out, but Dean locks the doors. I look at him. He pales but doesn’t unlock them. 

“He hasn’t technically done anything yet,” Dean says. “I ain’t saying we won’t put him down, but it seems like this doesn’t deserve the death penalty.”

“In my experience,” I say, “middle-aged men following women home doesn’t usually end well.”

Dean winces.

“No, look,” Sam says, pointing at Montgomery, who’s walking away. “He’s not doing anything.”

“He wants to.” Sam’s missing the point.

“But he isn’t,” Sam repeats. He’s looking at his brother with a hopeful expression I want to burn off his face. “He isn’t going to give in.”

“Not yet, maybe,” I mutter, but Dean seems to be wavering. 

“We’ll give him a chance,” he decides at last.

“I’ll remind you of this when Jack over there is feasting on some kid’s flesh,” I tell him.

We take the surveillance in shifts. I manage a full hour of shitty sleep in the backseat before Sam wakes me and Dean up.

“Something’s wrong,” he says. “I heard a scream.”

The two of them draw guns. They still haven’t given me one-- it’s almost like they don’t trust me or something-- so I stick with my knife.

What I wouldn’t give for a na’at right now. I’m not bad at hand-to-hand, but it’s a lot more fun to kill things from ten feet away where they can’t grab you.

Sam kicks down the front door, because these two morons wouldn’t know stealth if it slit their throats in their sleep. 

I close it behind us, because I don’t want to deal with the cops.

A guy I presume to be Travis-- Christ, that’s a terrible name-- is pointing a gun at Montgomery, who’s tied to a chair. A pregnant woman is standing with her hands over her mouth in the kitchen.

“Travis?” Sam asks. He’s using the tone hostage negotiators and psychiatrists use. “You didn’t tell us about this.”

“Because you’ve gone soft,” Travis spits. “Your daddy would have burned Jack Montgomery alive without blinking an eye. He’d be ashamed to see what you’ve become.”

“I’m sure your daddy was disappointed in you, too,” I tell him. “Looking at you makes me disappointed in humanity and I'm not even the reason for your shitty existence.”

Dean’s mouth twitches. 

“Don’t antagonize a man with a gun,” Travis tells me. His eyes are wilder than I’m comfortable with. 

“See, that’s assuming I have common sense, which I’ve never had much of.”

“I can tell.”

Travis swings around to point the gun at me. 

“Hey, whoa, whoa,” Dean says, raising his hands in the classic “don’t shoot” gesture. “Stark’s a real pain in the ass, but he’s not gonna hurt you. He’s been saying we should shoot Jack since the start.”

I make eye contact with the lady in the kitchen and jerk my chin toward the back door. It takes a few seconds but she gets it and starts inching away from Travis. I guess shock makes you stupid. I haven’t felt it in a long time, so I can’t comment.

“You agree with me, son?” Travis asks. “You agree monsters are monsters and they can’t be saved?” 

I know what I should do. I should agree with the unhinged guy with the gun, see if I can disarm the situation, make sure Jack’s wife gets away 

Yeah, what I should do has never been my thing.

“I’m not your fucking son.”

“Thank God for that,” he says. “Your daddy must have--”

Before he can launch into another tired insult about fathers-- this guy has daddy issues out the fucking wazoo-- the back door squeaks as the woman opens it. Travis jolts and goes to aim at her back.

I don’t do anything, because Jack Montgomery manages to rip into Travis’ neck with his teeth. 

Travis screams. 

“Hey!” Sam shouts, taking aim at Montgomery. The rugaru has fallen over in his haste to eat. He doesn’t seem to mind the fact that he’s still tied to a chair. “Let go!”

Montgomery’s skin is already bubbling as he starts to change. His smell is changing, too. He reeks of rotten meat and blood. 

“Don’t you have to use fire to kill a rugaru?” I ask Dean.

Dean pulls his gaze from the scene before us. I’m reminded that I’m talking to Alastair’s apprentice by the cool, empty look in his eyes. 

He blinks and comes back to himself. “Yeah. Shit. We forgot to grab the flamethrower.”

“I think I’ve got that covered.” 

Fire is kind of my thing.

James Stark, sentient flamethrower for hire. Assassinations upon request. I should make business cards.

Sam fires at Montgomery, even though he knows it won’t do anything. 

I guess the screams got to him. They’re white noise for me.

The bullet strikes home, but all it does is get the rugaru’s attention. He snarls and rips free of the chair. 

“Nice,” I tell Sam. “Great idea. A-plus. You might want to move back now.”

Dean yanks his brother behind me as the thing that had been Jack Montgomery charges. 

I throw one of the first Hellion spells I’d learned. All it does is light a fire, but if you pump enough power into it, it can light just about anything on fire.

The rugaru goes up in flames. It’s a matter of seconds until it’s burned down to bones. 

I put the fire out with another spell. This one takes oxygen away. It works for fires too, something I discovered on accident.

Sam gags and pulls his shirt over his nose. The smell doesn’t bother Dean or I.

Burning flesh is Hell’s favorite Febreze scent. It smells like home.

Sam goes over to Travis. 

“Don’t bother,” I tell him. He ignores me and tries to find a pulse.

“Leave him, Sam,” Dean says. 

“We should…”

“I hear sirens,” I warn them. They’re distant, but they’re there.

“Leave him, Sammy.” Dean takes his brother’s shoulder and pulls him away.

“I could burn his body, too,” I offer.

Dean shakes his head.

“What do we do about Jack’s son?” Sam asks. He’s slumped against the window.

Nobody can be saved, kid. Better learn that now.

“Hell if I know. Stark? Any ideas?” Dean glances at me in the rearview mirror.

For once, I do kind of have a plan. 

“I could take him to Hell,” I say. “When he’s about to turn. He just can’t have a kid, or we have this problem all over again.” 

I could leave him in the wastelands outside Pandemonium. No humans for him to try to eat, he probably wouldn’t get roped into any freakshows. It’s a long way from perfect, but it might be doable.

“How the fuck would we keep him from having a kid?” Dean’s skeptical, but he wants this to work.

“I might know a guy who can do it.”

“That friend of yours?”

“Yup. Vidocq’s got stuff for about everything.”

Preventing a rugaru from breeding might be a new one, but he’ll figure something out.

“Wait,” Sam says, sitting up in his bed just as I’m falling asleep. Dean groans something that could be interpreted as _ Sammy _in protest of being woken up. Sam ignores him. “You can go to Hell?”

“I’ve been told that by a lot of people.”

“That’s not what I--”

“Go to sleep, Sammy,” Dean orders. It’s somewhat undercut by the fact that he’s speaking into his pillow. 

“But--”

“‘_ammy_.”

“Fine.”

Thanks be to God. Or Satan. Or someone.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about missing last Thursday, and sorry for the short chapter. It’s been kind of a crazy couple of weeks and this fic, although fun, does require more energy than most of my other projects. Also, I wanted to do the yellow fever episode justice, so the hallucinations bit will be next week.  
I’ll do my best to keep up a regular schedule, but this semester’s gonna be rough, so apologies in advance.  
Additional warning for self-harm-- I don’t think it’s anything outside the realm of SS, but. Ya know. Take care of yourself and whatnot, because I care about you. :)

Over the next few weeks, the Winchesters and I settle into something like a routine.

(Even though the word  _ routine _ makes me taste bile.)

Every few days someone finds a case, we drive a tortuous distance listening to torturous music that I tune out, we find something, we kill it. Rinse the blood out of our clothes and repeat.

I start training myself to sleep on the couch. It doesn’t work that well-- sleeping somewhere comfortable makes all of my instincts light up with warning signals-- but it’s something real people do, so I’m making myself try.

The nightmares aren’t that much worse anyway.

Dean screams in his sleep. He says I yell and fight.

Both of us avoid mentioning what, exactly, we say in our sleep. It’s better that way.

Sam doesn’t ask, and we don’t tell.

Between the hunting, there’s also a lot of Sam worrying about the impending apocalypse.

“You remember what I said, right?” I snap somewhere in Ohio. “Or are you just always this annoying?”

“What?” Sam quits moping to look at me.

“You have to kill Lilith to let Lucifer out. Don’t do that and we’re fine. Or, well, we’re not fine, but Lucifer stays in Hell.”

We get through almost an entire Lynyrd Skynyrd song before Sam speaks again. 

“If I kill Lilith, Lucifer gets out?”

“Yup. I think it’s gotta be after sixty-five other seals, or something. Heaven’s into symbolism. Parallelism. Whatever the fuck it is.” I don’t remember much from English besides being sick of analyzing things. If the authors themselves didn’t mean to put the symbol there, then why were we learning about what it meant? 

“Why does it have to be Sam?” Dean’s question is sharp.

Fuck.

“I don’t think you want me saying it here,” I tell him.

“Don’t want me to know?” Sam asks. His tone is hard to read.

“I don’t want either of you to know.”

“Why?” Dean demands. 

“‘Cause you don’t remember Hell,” I remind him. I doubt Sam believes that story, not after all the screaming, but it’s a little late to drop the story now. “And it’s got to do with that.”

Two things which can always shut the Winchesters up: Hell and Ruby.

Turns out when there’s no one talking Lynyrd Skynyrd isn’t terrible.

To be fair, anything up here is better than Hellion music.

We take down a shapeshifter with an unhealthy obsession with old horror movies in Pennsylvania. Or, actually, I take down a shapeshifter while the Winchesters haplessly stand around, which is pretty typical.

The shapeshifting Dracula-wannabe calls me “an uncouth modern monster”. I shrug and drive the knife I borrowed from Dean into its heart.

He said it like an insult, for some reason.

“How’d you know it was her-- him, I guess-- like that?” Dean asks as we head back to the hotel. “You just took one look and knew.”

“Her-- fuck, his? Jesus, shapeshifters are a pain in the ass-- eyes were yellow. You couldn’t see it?”

Sam says, “You have to get a shapeshifter’s eyes on camera to see that they’re not human.”

“Must be another angel thing,” Dean muses. “I wonder if you could spot vampires or werewolves, too.”

“Don’t know, don’t care. Where next?”

Staying in one place for too long is a bad idea for several reasons. It gives me time to think, for one thing.

“There have been some suspicious deaths in Rock Ridge, Colorado,” Sam says. 

“Fantastic. Let’s go.”

I let Sam and Dean go to the morgue on their own. Dean hasn’t managed to get himself murdered yet, but I’m going to wind up killing him if I have to be with him 24/7. 

I spend the whole time the Winchesters are gone sprawled on Dean’s bed watching  _ A Fist Full of Dollars _ and drinking whiskey.

Quality relaxation.

They get back and Sam heads straight to the bathroom to wash his face. 

Spleen juice isn’t as gross as he considers it to be. Try stomach acid. That shit’s disgusting.

I don’t notice anything wrong at first. My skin always feels like it’s two sizes too small, these days, so the constant itch under it isn’t unusual.

It isn’t until Sam asks Dean, “Are you aware that you’ve been scratching your arm for like a minute?” that I realize I’ve been doing the same thing.

I look down and see bloody furrows down the inside of my left forearm. There’s blood under my fingernails.

The sting of the cuts is the most grounding thing I’ve felt since I got back. 

Pain is an entirely different thing when it’s yours. I discovered that a long time ago. Some things don’t change. 

Even though-- or maybe because of-- the stillness the pain brings, I can tell something’s wrong. I’m on edge most days, yeah, but not like this. I’m way more twitchy than I should be. I should have noticed breaking skin.

The Winchesters look at me.

“Stark?” Dean asks. His eyes are wilder than I’ve ever seen them.

Yeah. Something’s wrong. 

I don’t do out of control. Alastair’s apprentice shouldn’t do frantic.

Dean grabs the EMF detector and waves it around. It lights up like an addict’s eyes when they see their drug of choice.

“I’m haunted,” he whispers. “It got to Stark, too. Sammy, I think it’s gonna kill me. I’m gonna die.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sam snaps. “I’m calling Bobby, and he can tell you you’re a moron.”

Bobby tells us we're all idiots.

“So why don’t I have it?” Sam asks Bobby, who sighs over the speakerphone. 

“This says that, uh, only people who have used fear as a weapon get infected.”

“So they’re dicks,” Sam summarizes.

“Yup.”

“Hey,” Dean protests. 

Sam isn’t wrong. 

“Hey Bobby,” I say, leaning forward a little. “How long do we have until our hearts give out? I was kind of getting used to being alive again.”

“Maybe a day, maybe a day and a half. It’s not clear. But you boys better get to the ghost fast.”

“We kill it and this stops?” Dean asks. 

“I think so. None of this is certain, ‘course, but… It’d make sense.”

“But that means we have to go and try to kill it.” Dean’s voice tremors. “I don’t want to do that, Bobby. That sounds scary.”

Sam stares at his brother. “I think we better get started on that, Bobby.”

“Yeah,” Bobby says. “Yeah, I think you should do that.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: My accent/way of speaking is much more like the Winchesters’ than a California accent, so sorry if Stark’s dialogue is off. 
> 
> A/N: Oh, God.  
This is now 53 pages long and I sort of came up with a plot that intersects with the SS one.  
What have I gotten myself into.  
…  
Anyways.  
The poem Stark references is called “the history of a tough motherfucker”. Stark definitely doesn’t strike me as a poetry person, but Charles Bukowski mostly lived in LA and wrote a lot of gritty stuff, so.  
Also, the poem’s about a cat who just… refuses to give up. Hard to go wrong there.

I do my best to help with the research, but I’ve never been a book kind of guy, and the words won’t stop moving.

The clock’s too loud. I turn on the TV. The screen shows me holding up a Hellion’s dripping head. I’m showing it off to the crowd.

I turn the TV off. There’s an itch in my throat. Dean’s coughing.

The clock’s driving me crazy.

I scratch my arm. It’s purposeful this time. The pain in my arm makes my heart feel a little less like it’s pounding out of my chest.

The cloud’s ticking sounds like the applause in the arena.

There’s blood coating my fingers by the time Dean puts his fist through the clock face. He kicks it over, too. 

He stares at me.

“It was bothering me,” Dean mumbles. Blood beads on his knuckles.

I shrug and head over to the fridge. The blood on my fingers smears on the handle.

I should probably clean that off.

“Beer?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

Sam gets back. Dean coughs a wood chip into the sink. I cough blood into my elbow. 

The Winchesters almost look concerned.

“I’m fine.” I know what it feels like to be torn up inside, and this ain’t it. The back of my throat is just cut up. 

I finish my beer. The taste of my own blood is familiar, even if the taste of it mixed with beer is disgusting.

“You two are the best clues we have,” Sam says. “The abrasions, this, the disease, it’s trying to tell us something.”

“Tell us what?” Dean asks. “Wood chips?”

“Exactly.”

The hell kind of ghost has a wood chip fetish?

“I’m not going in there.” Dean looks at the warehouse with the same trepidation scrawny kids look at dodgeballs with.

Sam sighs and looks between Dean and me. “Well, I need someone to back me up.”

At any other time, I’d be mocking Dean. At the moment, all I can manage is an eye roll. 

Usually, adrenaline is soothing. Feels like peace. 

This ghost sickness shit is throwing me off. This directionless, pointless fear isn’t making me sharp. It’s making me useless.

“I’ll go,” I say. My voice does not shake.

Dean nods eagerly. “I’ll watch the car.”

“You do that,” Sam says.

Dean pulls out a flask. He takes a swig, looks at me, and holds it out. 

I take a long drink. The whiskey inside is bad, but it’s strong.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

I can see past Dean’s cheerful smile. He’s terrified.

That makes two of us.

“Let’s go,” I say. 

I realize what this reminds me of as Sam and I head into the warehouse. It feels like those first few months-- years, maybe, it wasn’t like anyone handed me a calendar-- Downtown. Back when I was still the lowest piece of shit on the food pyramid.

I don’t like that feeling. It’s too close to vulnerability.

Every part of me wants to hole up in the Room. But I’m too goddamn stubborn to admit it.

I can master the fear. For the moment, at least.

I wonder if I’m just better at turning fear into anger than Dean is. The ghost sickness doesn’t seem to be affecting me as much.

I saw Dean torture a few times. He’d smiled the whole time, but his eyes had been so lifeless I’d wondered if he’d even notice if I killed him.

I’ll have to trade truths with him, if we both survive. 

I want to know if that smile had been fury leaking out.

I like to think so. I like to think it wasn’t just another thing Alastair did to him.

My boot hits something shiny on the floor. The clink of the metal makes my heart jump.

“Hang on.” Sam picks it up. “‘To Frank. Love, Jessie.” Frank O’Brien’s ring?”

“Who’s Frank O’Brien?”

“One of the vics,” Sam tells me. “Uh, no idea what he was doing out here, but … might mean something.”

“Whatever.” It’s not like I’m anything more than the muscle.

I hear something rustling in one of the rooms. I draw my knife and head towards it. Sam cocks the safety on his gun back.

At least it’s not a fucking Glock. I’d expect one from people with these many daddy issues.

The movement’s coming from inside a locker. Sam counts down from three, mouthing the numbers, and jerks the door open.

I will deny yelping until the day I get sent to Tartarus.

“It’s a cat,” Sam points out.

“I have eyes.”

“Your reaction seemed disproportionate.”

I ignore him and walk over to the decrepit table across the room.

I like cats. They’re evil little bastards. That poem by Charles Bukowski about his cat is the only poem I’ve ever read that hasn’t made me want to light something on fire.

There’s a portrait of a woman on the table. Sam picks it up.

“I think this is Frank’s wife,” he says.

“Fascinating. This isn’t helping me not die.” I tear the drawing from the stack of papers. The machines hum to life. 

That’s always a good sign. 

There’s someone in the corner. Looks like a large man.

Sam shoots it with rock salt and we run for the car.

“Looks like we got the right place,” Sam comments. 

Dean’s hiding behind the Impala. I steal his flask and take a few swallows.

I’m less drunk than Dean is, but Sam still tells me to stay behind. I do.

Not that I’m taking orders from him. I just don’t want to fry some poor secretary if they startle me. The state I’m in, I would stab first and ask questions later, and that wouldn’t help stop my heart from giving out.

I can’t sit still. I don’t want to go outside, because there’s too many potential threats. I give in and light a cigarette after fifteen minutes of pacing. 

I’ve been smoking a little less with the Winchesters. Sam glares at me if he catches me smoking, Dean refuses to let me smoke in the car, and sometime when I was gone they banned smoking in bars, so my opportunities are limited. I’ve been getting creative, though. I’m nothing if not stubborn. 

If lung cancer is the thing that kills me, I win at life.

I expect the nicotine to help. It doesn’t. The smoke just makes me cough more. 

The coughing hurts my guts. I spit blood into the sink, grind out my cigarette, and don’t look at myself in the mirror.

Those two morons better fix this. If they get me killed, I’m going to claw my way out of Hell again just to strangle them. 

I flip through the TV channels. 

Alice, pale and silent, lying in a hospital bed.

I change the channel.

My mother staring into nothing as my father and I scream back and forth across the table.

I change the channel.

Me, at age nineteen, standing naked and defenseless in the streets of Perdition.

I change the channel.

Me, at age twenty-three, holding my guts in with my hands.

I change the channel.

Azazel, his hundreds of teeth bared, reaching out of the TV for me.

I hit the power button hard but the screen doesn’t go off.

I throw the first hoodoo that comes to mind and the TV explodes.

I’m staring at the fragments of the TV with my knife drawn when Dean bursts through the door.

“What?” I slam and lock the door.

“There’s--” Dean doubles over, panting. “There’s a dog.”

“Like a rabid one? A Hellhound? What?”

He shakes his head. I sheath my knife, since I’m not about to stab a dog. I look out the grimy window.

There’s one of those evil little fluffy dogs waiting by the door. You know, one of those those annoying yappy ones that you can punt.

It’s by no definition a threat. 

“Dean? You feeling okay?”

“Fuck no,” he snaps.

Yeah. Fair enough.

Dean about has a seizure when Sam comes back. He snaps out of it after a while, but it’s a bad sign. 

Sam pulls me aside and asks me, hushed, “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m surrounded by cocaine and strippers.”

“That bad, huh?”

I don’t answer.

Sam calls Bobby and spends the hours before Bobby arrives watching Dean like a hawk. When Bobby pulls up outside the hotel, Sam rushes to the door. He pauses in the doorway.

“It’ll be okay, guys.”

He leaves. Dean locks and bolts the door behind him.

We sort of stare at each other. 

“Well, I was gonna watch TV, but…” Dean trails off. He glances at the TV’s twisted remnants.

“No one’s in the room next door,” I say. “You could watch in there.”

He brightens. “Good idea.”

The sound of cartoon voices comes through the walls. I lie on my back with my knife in my hand, stare at the ceiling, and try to ignore Azazel’s silhouette in the bathroom door.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just gonna reiterate the self-harm warning.  
Stark doesn’t use adverbs. I like adverbs. It’s a struggle. It is nice to be able to swear a lot, though.

I turn my head enough to look at him sometime after my heart starts pounding too hard to ignore.

“I killed you. I fucking killed you.”

“Oh, Jimmy,” Azazel says. “It’s so cute that you still think that.”

He smiles. It’s the smile that had nearly made me piss myself, at first. Now, it’s just routine. Just a reminder of who’s alpha.

Just a reminder that I never really left. Never really escaped. Never really got control.

“Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy,” he sighs, stepping closer. “You’ll be back with me soon. Just listen to your heart.” 

I lash out with my knife. It glances off of Azazel. He just smiles wider.

I want to go through the nearest shadow. I want to run. I can’t make myself move. In the motel room next door, I hear Dean fall to the floor.

Azazel taps one claw on the cheap bedside table. It scratches into the wood. With every tap, he speaks. 

“Boom. Boom. Boom.”

I’m floating, somewhere between the motel and Hell. I can almost see the arena below me. Home sweet home. Hey, at least I got to drink some coffee one last time.

Boom. 

Boom. 

Boom.

_ Alice. _

The pressure on my chest vanishes just as Hell is coming into focus below me. I sit up, gasping for air. 

Azazel’s gone. My heart’s still beating way too fast, but it’s natural now. Even with all my experience, almost dying does that to me.

I stagger to my feet and manage to unlock the door without falling over. Sweat’s cooling under my shirt. 

I knock on the door of the room Dean took over. I almost kick it down when he doesn’t open the door right away, but I’m still shaking. I don’t really want to fall on my ass while trying to play the knight in shining armor. I don’t have much dignity to begin with, but I like to pretend I’m not that useless.

I slip through the shadow of my open door instead. When I walk into Dean’s room, he’s leaning on the door. He opens it as I clear my throat. 

“Mother--” Dean clutches his chest. “Don’t-- are you _ trying _ to kill me, Stark?”

“You took too long to unlock the door.”

“Because I almost fucking _ died _, you asshole!”

I shrug one shoulder and dig through my pockets until I find my pack of cigarettes. I almost drop half of them, but I get one between my fingers and light it with a snap.

I inhale and try to make my hands stop shaking. Dean watches me exhale with hungry eyes. 

I offer him a cigarette. He takes it after a small pause. 

I light it for him. That spell’s more safe than having him wave a lighter around.

We’re sitting side by side on the bed, smoking, when Sam bursts into the room. 

“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean says. I steal his cigarette from him as his brother pulls him into a fierce hug.

“You’re gonna get lung cancer, you idiot,” Sam mumbles into Dean’s shoulder.

I don’t have anywhere to put out Dean’s cigarette, so I grind it out on my arm, right over the fading pink lines from where I ripped my skin open with my nails.

Bobby pulls me into a one-armed hug before he goes. 

“Glad your chest didn’t explode.”

He’s not lying. Weird.

“Me too.”

He pulls away in a cloud of dust and exhaust. I take a sip of beer and wonder what the fuck this feeling is.

“What’d you see?” Sam asks Dean. 

Sam and I wait for his answer. He pauses a moment too long.

“Howler monkeys.”

Sam snorts. He doesn’t believe Dean. I don’t, either. 

Sam looks at me. “What about you, Stark?”

I’ve never been much of a liar. But I don’t want their pity.

“Azazel.”

They don’t need to know. Not about Alice, about my mother, the arena, or anything else.

The Winchesters don’t ask. I don’t elaborate. 

We pack up and take off before I can get nailed for breaking shit. Dean stops driving in Casper, Wyoming, an hour or so after dark.

Dean kicks Sam out of the car with our bags and instructions to rent a room. I get into the front seat and he shifts into first before I even close the door. My legs are cramping, but I don’t say anything as the Impala roars onto the interstate again. 

I get it. I did my share of aimless driving, before. Sometimes the car’s the only thing you can control.

Dean goes fifteen over the whole way to Alcova Reservoir. I’m thinking maybe he’s planning some Thelma and Louise type shit. The Impala isn’t meant for mountain driving, though, and Dean cares more about this car than his life, so I’m not too worried about it. 

He pulls off on a scenic overlook and turns off the Impala.

Dean gets out without saying a word. I follow him. 

He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the inside pocket of his leather jacket. 

“What happened to lung cancer?”

Dean flicks his silver lighter. The flame illuminates his jawline as he cups his hand around it. “Ain’t like I’m gonna live long enough for it to matter.”

Yeah. Fair.

I snag a cigarette from his pack. He lights it for me. Ten feet away, a truck flies up the road. Hundreds of feet below us, the water laps at the rocks. 

“You actually see Azazel?” Dean asks. 

“Yeah. Some other shit, too, but he was the one at the end.”

Dean nods. “I saw Lilith-- you ever meet her?”

“Yeah. Psycho bitch.” Alastair likes to hurt you slow. Azazel likes to make his point. Lilith likes to gut you just to watch you scream. 

He laughs. The sound’s bitter. “Yeah. She likes to possess little girls. Nearly killed one of the poor kids she’d possessed, before I-- before. It was her. That kid.”

“Kids are different,” I say. 

What? Yeah, I’m an unhinged asshole at best. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t break your neck for hurting a kid. 

“Yeah.” Dean looks out over the reservoir, his cigarette trailing smoke back towards the road. “Can I tell you something? Something I can’t tell Sam?”

I’m tempted to wait for him to realize that’s a stupid question, but he looks strung out enough. Look at me, feeling empathy and shit. I’m a regular goddamn Mother Theresa. “Sure.”

“I thought it was gonna be Alastair.”

I take a long drag. 

“I thought I was gonna see him again,” Dean says. “And… and God help me, I think I was hoping to.”

I study his expression, since he probably can’t see me doing it. 

He’s the kind of guy I would have hit on, once. Even if you know they’re straight, there’s something about a damaged man with a nice car and a cocky grin that’s hard to resist. 

Now all I see is the Hellfire in his eyes.

“You gonna say something, or just stare at me?”

Shit. Apparently all it takes is a guy in a leather jacket smoking to turn me into a goddamn poet.

“Wasn’t sure you were done.”

He glares at me. “I am.”

“Great.” I drop the stub of my cigarette and grind it into the gravel. “I knew all that, Dean. Or at least I could’ve guessed. It’s not hard to see that you’re hung up on him.”

“I’m not--”

“I could say hung up, or I could start throwing around words like ‘Stockholm Syndrome’.” 

Look at me, using multisyllable words. 

He shuts his mouth.

“I get it. You’re fucked up ‘cause of what he did to you. I spent some time with the bastard-- not as much as you, and I’m not saying it’s the same, but enough to have an idea. Alastair fucked you up and fucked with your head. That kind of shit isn’t easy to undo, and you can’t expect it to just go away, ‘cause you’re stuck with it, and all you can do is keep moving.”

“Thanks, grief counselor.” Dean smirks at me, but something in his shoulders has loosened a little.

I flip him off and lean against the Impala’s hood. 

We look out over the water in the dark for a long time.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick personal note: Sorry for missing last week. My OCD’s been bad lately, which kind of makes my brain not a fun place. I wasn’t actually sure I was going to make this Thursday’s update, but then RK tweeted about his mental health diagnoses, among which is OCD, and, uh, that kinda made me feel better.  
If he can write with OCD, I can update my fic with OCD.  
Editorial over. :)
> 
> I’m not thrilled with this chapter, but here it is.  
Hard left-turn into AU land, y’all. Er. More into AU land? Anyways.

I’m dreaming of the arena when Castiel appears in front of me.

“Abomination,” he greets. 

I have my na’at in the dream. I retract it enough to be ready for stabbing purposes. 

“Call me that one more fucking time. I dare you.”

He blinks at me, then decides to ignore that. “You need to come with me.”

“Like Hell.”

I’m not sure if it’s instinct or just straight-up anger that makes me snap the na’at out and through his chest. 

The angel tilts his head. I extend the spikes on the tip of the na’at, twist it, and rip it back out of his chest.

I can see the organs knit back together. His chest closes up.

“You will come with me,” Castiel repeats.

“No.”

“Aelita wishes to speak with you.”

“Who the fuck is Aelita?”

Castiel’s lips thin. “My immediate superior.”

“The fuck does she want?”

“I do not know.”

“Then no.”

He frowns.

You’d think these people would have gotten the memo already. I don’t take orders. Not from anyone but Alice. Not anymore. 

He goes to touch my forehead. I jerk backwards and manage to jolt myself awake.

I have half a second to take in the concern on the Winchesters’ faces before Castiel’s hovering over me again. 

“I was going to take him immediately,” Castiel informed Dean. “But he insisted on being stubborn.”

“Yeah. I do that.” I sit up and the scratchy hotel blanket falls from my chest. The three of them stare. Castiel’s impassive. He glances over my bare skin and wanders away to inspect the journals on the desk. Sam looks horrified. Dean’s face is frozen in a grimace-- I can’t tell if it’s in memory or in disgust. 

I’ve seen him skin a screaming, begging teenager. He made it last at least half a day. The kid sold their soul when they were thirteen, got conned into taking a deal for three years. Their parents kicked their skull in. The demon who made the deal got into their hospital room.

The kid told it all to Alastair. I think the demon liked to keep Dean feeling like what he was doing was… righteous.

I was watching. “Training”, Azazel called it. I’m not sure if he was telling the truth or if he’d figured out by then that not much he could do to me could touch me anymore.

Whatever Alastair wanted to do to Dean with that kid-- whatever Azazel wanted to do to me-- it didn’t work. Or at least it didn’t make Dean stop.

Can’t say I blame him. 

Point is, Dean’s got no right to look as disturbed as he does. If anyone gets to be freaked out about my scars, it’s me. 

“What do you want from him?” Sam asks the angel. Castiel doesn’t stop flipping through John Winchester’s journal. Dean snatches it away from Castiel with a glower. 

“My superior would like to speak with him.”

“Is that a good thing?” Sam’s got his “ready to bow down and worship” face on. Christ. Altar boys make me want to puke. 

“I do not know.”

“Answer’s the same, Cassie.”

He glares at me. He’s got a nice glare. It’s all intimidating and smite-y. “My name is Castiel.”

“Okay, Cassie.”

“Look. Cas.” Dean’s interruption probably keeps my ass unsmote. I wonder if the angel notices how close Dean’s hand is to his knife. “We’ll just talk to you, okay? That work?”

When it’s Dean calling him nicknames the angel doesn’t mind them, of course. I’d lodge a complaint about the blatant favoritism if God hadn’t fucked off on a permanent vacation a long time ago. 

“I suppose that is acceptable for the time being.”

The angel vanishes.

“Looks like you’re a pain in everyone's ass, Stark,” Dean says. He drops his hand from beside the demon’s knife. 

I’m almost touched by his devotion. 

“It’s a talent.”

We leave for our next hunt that morning.

“It looks like it’s witches,” Dean says. “I frickin’ hate witches.”

“Fuckin’ Sub Rosa assholes,” I mutter. 

“Aren’t you, uh, ‘Sub Rosa’?” Sam asks.

“Technically, I guess. Not a very good one.”

“Why?”

“It’s that whole ‘instinctive hatred of rich people with their lives together’ thing.”

Dean nods like he agrees. Sam just looks annoyed with both of us.

He went to Stanford. I’ve run into the kind of rich assholes who went there. 

He doesn’t get a vote.

It’s my own fault, really.

I let down my guard when Dean and I are drinking and Castiel grabs my shoulder when I’m just drunk enough for my reflexes to be a little dull.

We land in a dim, concrete room. I try to flip the angel over my shoulder and he just... doesn’t move.

“Fuck you,” I spit. I let go of him and head towards the nearest shadow. 

“Aelita needs to talk to you. You do not have a choice in the matter.”

“Bite me, bird boy.”

A female voice stops me from leaving.

“The Abomination is just as eloquent as I’ve been informed it is.”

I turn around. There’s a woman who looks like a librarian and a businesswoman. 

I look closer. No. She’s not human.

“Aelita, I presume.” 

What? I like James Bond. It’s a guilty pleasure.

Aelita nods, all regal. My jaw clenches.

“What do you want from me?”

She smiles. Her teeth are way too white. 

“Just this.”

She draws a flaming sword and slams it into my chest.

My knees give out. I barely feel the impact as I fall to the floor. 

This is how I die, I guess. Stabbed through the chest by a pissed-off angel who works in middle management. 

Not how I thought I’d get sent back Downtown. Still, it’s more dignified than dying from food poisoning in a shitty hotel in Fresno.

It’s not much, but it’s what I try to hold onto as the blood pours out of me. 

Sorry, Alice. I tried. 

I really did.

I wake up yelling. Alice is standing over me.

“You never should have come back, Jimmy,” she says. “Monsters like you don’t belong up here.”

I close my eyes, count to eleven, and open them again. It’s just Sam.

“You good?” 

From his face, he knows the answer already.

I guess normal people do stupid shit like ask anyway. 

“Goddamn angels won’t leave me alone.”

“Somehow I always pictured them as being less douche-y.”

I snort.

The situation sinks in.

“I’m not dead.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d that happen?”

Sam jerks his head at Castiel, who’s awkwardly lurking in the corner. I slide my hand towards the knife strapped to my ankle. “Cas brought you back, fixed you up. I’ve got no idea what happened.”

“Aelita stabbed him,” the angel informs Sam. “I decided not to let him die.”

“Why?”

“Gee, thanks, Winchester.”

Sam ignores me. 

“I…” Castiel hesitates. “It did not seem right. I must go.”

“What--”

The angel disappears. Again.

“It’d be hard for them to be any more douchey,” I comment.

I look down at my chest. Below all the drying blood, there’s a great scar where Aelita stabbed me. It looks a little like a snake dive-bombed into me to rip out my heart. “Damn. That one might make my top ten.”

Sam just sighs.    
  



	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story note: I did mention the hard left turn into AU land, right?  
Author’s note: Sorry for being late. Again.  
Updates will continue to be sporadic for a few weeks and then I should have some more time. Passing Calculus is taking up more of my life than I would like.

Sometime while I was out, the Winchesters killed Samhain. Too late to preserve the Seal, though. 

Figures. 

I’d better put out the welcome mat for Lucifer. Maybe he’ll kill me fast that way. I’m not sure if he holds a grudge against me for killing his second in command-- and the next two who replaced that one, come to think of it-- but I’d rather not find out. 

If the Seals don’t hold-- something looking more probable every day-- I might have to go down and talk to the Lightbringer himself. The thought makes my guts twist with the memories of a hundred knives. 

I don’t want to go back. 

I’m sure the Apocalypse will take my preferences into account. 

Using whatever combination of guilt-tripping, cheekbones, and profanity that he generally uses, Dean convinces Castiel to babysit me while Dean and Sam take off to have yet another one of their angsty conversations. 

I guess my cheekbones aren’t as nice as Dean’s are, because my threats of dismemberment don’t seem to phase the angel.

I’d be hurt, but Dean leaves me a bottle of Jack. 

The angel stands ramrod straight in the corner while I flip through the channels on the shitty motel TV. I get sick of it after maybe five minutes. 

“You can sit down, you know.”

Castiel blinks at me. He lowers himself onto the foot of the other bed with the kind of careful movement I associate with drunk people. 

I find some Sergio Leone knockoff and toss the remote onto the nightstand. It’s a shitty excuse for a Western, but the sounds of conflict make me feel a little better. 

Castiel stares at me instead of the TV, because of course he does. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Why would I take a picture?”

“Then you could stare at the picture instead of me. ‘Cause it’s a little creepy, not gonna lie.”

“After so long in Perdition, I would have thought you would be harder to unnerve.”

I resist the urge to chuck the remote at his head. “Humans don’t generally do this staring shit. If you’re gonna blend in, you’re gonna have to at least blink.”

He blinks and swivels his head away from me. It’s too unnatural to make me feel better, but whatever. It isn’t my job to make an angel gain social skills. 

I’m not real good at people anymore, either. Most of my conversation skills involve threats and cursing. 

On second thought, maybe I should be the one to teach bird boy over there how to interact with people. Might get that stick out of his ass. 

“I can’t read your thoughts,” Castiel says.

“Okay?”

“I can read most humans’.”

“Good for you.”

If he was human, I’d say Castiel looks frustrated. Or maybe he’s constipated. Hard to tell.

“It does not bother you that you are not human?”

“Nope.” 

I knew from the moment I opened my eyes to see actual sunlight that whatever had made me human was long gone. Being half-angel is just the shitty icing on the shit cake. 

Hell, my… Hell,  _ Alice  _ is a full-on angel. I’m just a partial member of the club. 

“So, which one of my parents fucked an angel?”

Castiel’s lips pinch and his eyes get all smite-y. “I find that distasteful.”

“Tell it to someone who gives a fuck.”

“Must you curse so much?”

“Yep.”

There’s that constipated/frustrated face again. 

“I will tell you if you tell me about the Morningstar.”

Whatever. It’s not like I care about protecting Lucifer’s air of mystery.

“Why do you want to know about him?”

He turns his eyes to the TV. The sheriff is facing off with the villain. They’re both wearing ponchos. I wonder if those ponchos would hide bloodstains. I could pull off a poncho. I could get a few revolvers, call myself Wild Bill II.

Anything that would make the man who raised me roll over in his grave is a good idea.

Castiel interrupts my thoughts about buying a cowboy hat. “I was young when he Fell. I remember him, of course, but… We are forbidden to listen to his words. And I remember well how bright he burned.”

“You should write poetry.”

“Why would I--”

“Never mind. What do you want to know?”

He thinks about it. “What is he like?”

Real specific. Okay then. “He’s a scary-ass motherfucker.”

“What else?”

Castiel leans a little closer to me. There’s no reprimand on his face for my language. Just naked eagerness. 

Always a good sign when the angels start to look like cult members. 

Who am I kidding. They’ve never been anything more than little cult followers, believing in God like he’s ever going to save them.

“He always wears suits,” I say. It’s not like Lucifer and I were buddies, but I saw him enough to get that much. “Silk shirts, dress shoes. Armor under it.”

I only saw Lucifer look less than flawless once. One of his generals tried to stab him and the knife sliced his shirt. I had just enough time to see the golden armor beneath it before Lucifer’s gladius was slicing off the general’s head. 

I say as much to Castiel. 

“Does he still have two gladii?”

I guess there’s a plural form of gladius. It sounds as stupid as I thought it’d be.

“Yeah.”

He nods. He must be satisfied, because he says, “It was your mother who laid with an angel.”

“Jesus, just say fucked.”

He looks away. “I prefer to avoid unnecessary profanity.”

I can’t not roll my eyes.

I guess it makes sense that it was Mom. She was beautiful, and she was lonely. 

“Who was the angel?”

“I am forbidden to tell you.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“I am not meant to have fun.”

“I can tell. Maybe  _ you _ need to find a human to fuck. Unwind a little.”

His expression is a cross between deer-in-the-headlights and divine fury.

The Winchesters get back way after the silence gets awkward. 

Aelita pops up in the parking lot as the Winchesters and I are packing up. We’re hurrying because my blood is all over one of the beds. 

The Winchesters have guns on her almost immediately. I’ll have to go back to pestering Dean for one, even if I doubt guns will do much against this bitch.

Said bitch looks unphased by the weapons pointed at her. 

“You survived,” she comments, looking me over.

“Yeah. Thanks for the get-well card.”

She must have a better grasp on sarcasm than Castiel because she ignores that. “How?”

Castiel didn’t give himself away, then. I did wonder how far Dean’s cheekbones would make the angel go.

Bird boy might be growing a spine. If he doesn’t get himself killed, he might be useful.

Free will will fuck you up just like any other drug. Some pretty girl-- or boy, in this case-- in a leather jacket offers you a taste, and once it hits your system, you don’t ever want to come down.

Trust me, we’re all just junkies looking for our next hit of freedom. Pretending we have a choice about taking it.

Aelita’s still waiting on her answer. I guess I owe Castiel this much.

“Guess I’m just harder to kill than you thought I was.”

Her lips twist. It’s hard to read angels, but I think she bought it. “You’re a cockroach.”

“Ugly and going to outlive you? Yeah, sounds right.”

“A cockroach is too generous. You’re more like a drytt.”

I shrug. I’ve been compared to worse. “You just here to call me a shit bug?”

“No.”

Dean shifts. “Get to the point, bi--”

Sam elbows him hard before Dean can finish calling the angel a bitch. Sam’s got more common sense than I do, anyway.

“It is lucky for you that Heaven has need of you,” she tells him. She’s ignoring Sam and I. “I would have sent Castiel, but he is being… reeducated.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Dean demands.

Like he doesn’t know. Like Alastair and Azazel didn’t use that word. We both know what it means. Castiel’s strapped to a bright white rack somewhere with some other brainwashed bastard sticking knives into him. 

I wonder if Heaven’s got their own Alastair. I bet they do.

Aelita ignores him. Shocker. “The demon Alastair is killing reapers,” she says. “And we need you to help capture him.”

The color drains from Dean’s face. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m just gonna leave this here and pretend that it hasn’t been a month since the last update…  
Jimmy’s being kept (relatively) safe in Heaven while Cas is being “reeducated” (tortured). Because Aelita has more common sense than whoever let Jimmy wander around on earth with demons taking potshots at him. Also, Anna was quietly assassinated, because Aelita isn’t stupid.   
(Aelita is evil but also more competent than Zachariah could ever dream of being.)  
This chapter, as always, is dedicated to RedWritingHood, whose comments and enthusiasm are the reasons I’m still working on this :)

“Who’s Alastair?” Sam asks. 

Aelita smiles, just a little. “I’ll let Dean tell you about that. You’ll need to conduct the Ritual of Separation-- or, you and Dean will, anyway, the Abomination will probably be able to see the Reapers without it. Your friend Pamela would be able to do it. Or, if you trust the Abomination-- which means you’re even more stupid than I thought-- it could probably conduct it. Maybe.”

I know that ritual. Not sure why, but I do. Just another one of those weird flashes of knowledge. It sounds like a euphemism for divorce proceedings, but all it does is basically turn you into a ghost.

“Why ask us?” There’s a tremor in Dean’s hand I hope Aelita hasn’t noticed.

Her smile widens. “Does it matter?”

We all know the answer to that one.

“No,” Sam says. “So where is this demon?”

“Why’d an angel try to kill you, anyway?” Sam asks as Dean peels out of the parking lot.

“Hell if I know. I guess she just didn’t appreciate my winning personality.”

It doesn’t hit me until we’re half an hour away. 

“Fuck, we’re actually going to Wyoming?”

Dean rolls his eyes at me in the mirror. “You get hit in the head recently? Again?”

“I nearly died twice in the last twenty four hours, sue me for being a little out of it.” I think that’s a valid excuse. “I don’t want to go to Wyoming.”

“Wyoming's nice.”

“Wyoming has twice as many cows than people.” I think, anyway. That sounds right. 

“Have you ever even been to Wyoming?” Dean asks. 

“No. Because no one in their right mind would go to Wyoming.”

In a rare moment of solidarity with me, Sam says, “Wyoming has some nice parts. Admittedly, very few of them, but…”

He flashes me a brief grin in the rearview mirror as Dean sputters. I’m too surprised to respond for a second, but I do my best to smile back once whatever social skills I still have left kick in.

Everyone sane hates Wyoming. One thing that hasn’t changed.

Sam makes the executive decision to call Pamela after I can’t remember if I’ve ever actually done this ritual.

“I could probably figure it out,” I offer. “I haven’t accidentally killed someone with hoodoo in decades.”

Dean looks like he’s considering it. Sam points a warning finger at his brother and picks up his phone without acknowledging me. 

Rude. 

Pamela agrees to zap the Winchesters into the spirit world or whatever and we’re left with most of a day to kill while she drives out.

Sam starts asking about Alastair right after he hangs up. I’m starting to see what Dean meant when he said Sam would never shut up if he knew Dean remembered Hell. 

Just another reason family’s overrated, if you ask me. I’ve got nobody to pester me about my traumatic experiences. Or whatever they’re calling it these days. I just call it ‘bad shit’. 

“I just want to know who he is,” Sam persists. Dean’s staring at the TV with determined focus. 

“No one good.”

“How do you know him?”

“You said you just wanted to know who he was. This is something else.”

“Dean--”

“He’s Hell’s chief torturer,” I interrupt. It would defeat the purpose of me being here if these two idiots kill each other. Besides, I really don’t want to deal with Alastair on my own. “Pretty famous down there. Hate the son of a bitch.”

Sam turns to look at me. My expression must convince him I’m serious, because looks away and nods a few times. 

“So we’re going after Hell’s best torturer.” It’s not a question.

“Yep.” Thought that had been established. Maybe the demon blood fried his synapses.

“Why?”

“‘Cause he’s killing reapers. Weren’t you listening?”

“Yeah, I just…” Sam sighs. “Why would Hell send this thing up for this kind of errand?”

“Killing reapers isn’t exactly an ‘errand’. You ever tried? Not easy.” I think Lucifer was the last one to do it.

“Sam’s right, though,” Dean says. “Why’d they send Alastair up for this? He’s a special circumstances kind of guy.”

Special circumstances. Like breaking the Righteous Man on a deadline. “The hell should I know? I didn’t exactly spend much quality time with him.”

He looks at the ceiling. “Just figured you were, you know, closer to the big dogs Downtown.”

“I haven’t been back since the halo squad dragged my ass out. And I’m not going back.”

We all pretend to watch TV for a while. 

“You spend any time with this demon, Stark?” Sam asks. On the screen, a woman is screaming. Someone up there has a sense of irony.

“Does it matter?”

“I just… I just wanna be prepared.”

“No, you just want to know about Hell. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I…” Sam sighs again. He does a lot of that. “Is there anything I should know, before we try to take down this thing?”

Dean’s fingers twitch. He needs to be more careful about that. Alastair isn’t going to be kind enough to ignore that tell, and I doubt the angels are either.

I’m getting really damn sick of having to talk so Dean can maintain his little charade. We’re gonna have a chat about that if we survive this glorious mission. He doesn’t need to talk about how he was Alastair’s little pet for forty years. Or even say that it was forty years. I don’t give a fuck if he gets closure or whatever. I’m just sick of dealing with his shit.

“He’s powerful,” I say at last. “That’s all you need to know.”

Sam isn’t satisfied with that, but I don’t care. 

I’m not in the mood to talk about what the white-eyed demon did to me. 

We decide to hustle pool that night since Pamela won’t be there until the morning and we’re running low. Gotta have enough money for gas and booze. Dean plays the drunk guy betting too much, Sam plays the responsible one, and I play the role of “shady guy drinking too much sitting in the corner in case the situation goes to shit.”

It doesn’t. I’m disappointed. I make a wonderful shady guy sitting in the corner.

Pamela rolls into the hotel room like a force of nature. I think I’m’ glad her eyes didn’t get liquified. 

“We need to stop meeting like this,” I tell her, and she laughs. I like the laugh. It’s ruch and throaty. 

Pamela seems like she knows how to have fun. 

In another life, maybe we could have had fun together. 

“Thanks for coming out, Pamela,” Sam says, giving her a hug. “We appreciate it.”

“Yeah, well.” She pulls Dean into a side hug as well. She doesn’t touch me, just nods at me. Good. “Any friend of Bobby’s and all that. Besides, how could I turn down a chance to see you boys again? Even if this is a shit excuse for a reunion.”

She drops a suspicious duffel bag on Sam’s bed and says, “We’re on a time crunch, yeah? Let’s get going.”

“So you know how to do this… Ritual of Separation?” Sam confirms. 

“Yup. I can yank your consciousness out and put it back in, no problem.”

“Just don’t leave them stranded in Wyoming,” I warn her. “I will haunt your ass if I have to go after them.” I could probably figure out how to get to Hell as a ghost. It’d be preferable than fucking  _ Wyoming. _

Pamela rolls her eyes. “I won’t. Not unless y’all do something stupid. You’re gonna want to lie down for this. I’m not equipped to deal with head trauma.”

While the Winchesters follow her orders, I lean against the wall with my arms folded. It’s one of the more stereotypical ways to intimidate someone, but hey, if it works, it works. Besides, most of the other ways I know to scare someone involve more screaming than we want right now. I don’t think Pamela’s going to screw us over, but it can’t hurt to give her a little reminder that I’m here if she does. 

“Calm down, James,” Pamela murmurs as she pulls out a book. “I don’t want the world to end or these two to get hurt any more than you do.”

“I don’t give a damn if the world burns. I’m just here because my dead girlfriend asked me to be.”

She laughs like I’m joking and starts reading. 

I stand guard. Because my dead girlfriend asked me to.


End file.
